THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


f/XST 


MRS.  JANE   G.  AUSTIN'S   NOVELS. 


CIPHER. 


One   Vol. 
ELEG-ANTLY    ILLUSTRATED. 


Price,   bound   in    Paper, 
Price,   bound   in   Cloth, 


THE 

SHADOW 


OP 


MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 

One   Vol.  8vo., 
ELEGA.NTLY   ILLUSTRATED. 

Price,  bound  in  Paper,      .......       ^|   oo 

Price,  bound  in  Cloth, 15O 


THE 


SHADOW 


OF 


MOLOCH    MOUNTAIN. 


BY 

JANE    G.    AUSTIN, 

AUTHOR  OF  "CIPHER,"   ETC. 


NEW-YORK: 
SHELDON   &    COMPANY. 

1870. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1870,  by 

SHELDON  &  COMPANY, 
in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


PS 

/05" 

$  y 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


CHAPTER  I. 
"  MORE  THAN  KIN  AND  LESS   THAN  KIND." 

NEAR  the  town    and  seaport   of  Milvor- 
haven,  stood,  some  years  ago,  an   old 
farm  house  known  ns  the  Brewster  Place. 


The  Breivster  Place. 


The  house  itself  might  have  been  copied  as 
a  type  of  rural  architecture  in  the  New-Eng 
land  of  fifty  years  ago,  with  its  low,  red  walls  ; 


its  roof  sweeping  downward  at  the  back  until 
it  touched  the  ground  ;  its  huge  chimney-stack 
occupying  nearly  half  the  area  of  the  house ; 
its  unhewn  "door-rock''  and  primitive  elm- 
shaded  well ;  its  lilac  and  syriuga  bushes,  and 
the  fine,  short  turf  crowding  close  to  the  low 
sills.  A  pleasant  house,  although  somewhat 
lonely,  set  as  it  was  in  the  midst  of  low  sand 
hills  and  dwarfed  pine  forest,  with  no  hint  of 
neighborhood  in  sight,  unless  it  was  to  be  in 
ferred  from  the  narrow  wheel-track  winding 
away  from  the  door  and  losing  itself  in  the 
blue-green  shadow  of  the  wood.  A  pleasant 
house,  and  a  good  farm,  as  farms  went  in  the 
township  of  Milvorhaven ;  and  yet,  as  Peleg 
Brewster,  driving  his  span  of  stout  grays  from 
the  barn  to  the  house,  cast  a  gloomy  look  over 
his  possessions,  he  muttered  with  a  bitter  curse: 
"  I  wish  the  devil  had  the  farm — and  me  too,  for 
that  matter." 

At  the  door  of  the  farm-house  stood  a  wom 
an  about  thirty  years  old, whom  one  might  call 
pretty  at  the  first  glance,  qualifying  the  opin 
ion  as  he  chose,  after  noting  with  a  second  look 
the  cunning  and  sensual  lines  about  the  red 
mouth,  the  false  light  in  the  greenish-blue 
eyes,  the  depression  of  the  forehead,  and  the 
firmness  of  the  lower  jaw.  This  woman  was 
Semantha  Brewster,  second  wife  of  the  black- 
browed  farmer  who,  sitting  in  the  wagon  at 
the  gate,  sternly  asked  of  her  : 

"Well,  where  is  Ruth?" 

"  Getting  ready,  but  as  ugly  as  sin  about  it," 
said  the  woman  sulkily. 

"  Tell  her  to  make  haste,  or  I'll  come  and 
fetch  her  in  a  hurry,"  ordered  her  husband 


1213319 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


and  the  woman  disappeared  within  the 
house. 

Peleg  Brewster,  still  sitting  at  the  gate, 
watched  the  door  for  a  moment,  and  then  suf 
fered  his  eyes  to  wander  on,  over  the  low, 
round  hills,  over  the  dense  pine  wood,  past 
the  scattered  houses,  set  here  and  there  upon 
their  lonely  farms,  until  far  on  the  horizon- 
line  he  caught  the  glint  of  the  sea,  bright  be 
neath  the  morning  sun. 

It  was  the  same  view  that  had  met  his  eyes 
ever  since  he  first  opened  them  forty  years  be 
fore  ;  and  yet,  to-day,  he  looked  upon  it  as  a 
stranger  might,  noting  with  curious  interest 
the  zigzag  line  of  the  half-cleared  wood,  where 
he  had  gone  chestnuting  so  long  ago  that  half 
these  trees  had  sprung  since  then,  the  broken 
chain  of  hills  beyond,  the  gap  where  they 
parted  to  let  Milvor  Branch  bring  its  bright 
waters  to  the  sea,  and,  finally,  the  fields  and 
pastures,  green  with  aftermath,  of  his  own 
domain.  Over  all  these  swept  the  gloomy 
gaze,  softening  and  saddening  as  it  went,  until, 
with  a  sudden  movement,  Peleg  Brewster 
turned  and  looked  intently  toward  a  rising 
ground  behind  his  house,  where,  within  an  en 
closure  of  evergreen-trees,  lay  a  little  burial- 
place  dotted  with  white  gravestones. 

"  If  Mary  hadjived !"  muttered  he,  and  lean 
ing  an  elbow  upon  his  knee,  rested  his  chin 
in  his  hand,  and  set  his  haggard  gaze  straight 
before  him. 

"Forty  years  boy  and  man,  and  now  I'm 
going.  The  same  roof  shan't  cover  us " 

The  figure  of  a  man  crossing  the  road  in 
front  of  his  horses'  heads  broke  the  line  of 
that  set  gaze,  and  it  altered  to  an  expression 
of  concentrated  rage. 

"  Hallo,  there  !  Joe — Joe  Brewster,  I  say ! 
Come  here,"  called  he,  sitting  upright,  and 
clenching  the  hand  a  moment  before  hanging 
supinely  from  his  knee. 

The  man  thus  addressed  paused,  hesitated  a 
moment,  and  then  came  slouching  down  the 
road,  until,  standing  near,  but  not  within  reach 
of  the  wagon,  he  raised  his  eyes  as  far  as  the 
other's  breast,  then  dropped  them  again,  and 
asked  in  a  low  voice : 

"  Well,  Peleg,  what  is  it  ?" 

Peleg  Brewster  did  not  immediately  reply, 
but  in  the  look  he  fixed  upon  the  other's  face 
burned  such  concentrated  scorn  and  wrath. such 
utter  loathing  and  contempt,  that  the  glance 
could  not  fail  but  reach  the  consciousness  of 
its  object  with  a  sting  words  might  have  failed 


to  convey.  Shifting  uneasily  from  toot  to  foot, 
and  moistening  his  white  lips  before  he  spoke, 
the  new-comer  asked  again  : 

"  Did  you  want  to  say  any  thing  more,  Peleg? 
I'm  just  a  going." 

"  The  same  father  and  the  same  mother 
owned  us,  and  I  wonder  why  I  don't  take  this 
gun  and  shoot  you  in  your  tracks,"  said  Peleg, 
half  turning  toward  a  rifle  lying  behind  him 
in  the  wagon.  His  brother  glanced  apprehen 
sively  in  the  same  direction,  but  made  no  re 
ply.  Peleg  still  regarded  him  in  silence,  and 
within  the  house  was  heard  the  soft  and  silky 
voice  of  Semantha,  calling  : 

'•  Come,  Ruthie,  aren't  you  ready  yet  ?" 

The  sound  seemed  to  rouse  her  husband 
from  the  gloomy  reverie  into  which  he  was 
falling,  and  he  hurriedly  said  : 

"  What  I  have  to  tell^  you,  Joe  Brewster,  is 
this  :  I  am  going  to  the  'haven  this  morning, 
and  to  Milvor  this  afternoon  ;  and  before  I 
come  home,  I'll  sell  this  place,  and  every  hoof 
and  every  stick  upon  it,  and  I'll  make  a  will 
that  shall  put  the  price  of  my  home  out  of 
your  reach,  and  out  of  hers — yes,  and  out  of 
the  child's  too,  that  you,  between  you,  have 
made  near  as  big  a  devil  as  yourselves.  And 
when  that's  oft'er,  I'm  going — no  matter  where. 
Where  I  never  shall  see  or  hear  of  the  man  I 
called  my  brother,  or  the  woman  I  called  my 
wife,  or  the  girl  that  was  Mary  Brewster's 
daughter.  Curse  you,  curse  you  all,  I  say, 
and  may " 

He  shut  his  teeth  firmly  over  the  next 
words,  and  though  the  tempest  of  passion 
shook  him  like  a  leaf,  and  though  his  writh 
ing  lips  grew  white,  and  his  very  eyes  blanched 
in  their  agony,  the  imprecation  remained  un 
spoken. 

Oh  !  well  for  you,  Peleg  Brewster — well  for 
you  before  the  night  fell,  that  those  words 
were  never  said,  that  you  fought  the  fight  and 
conquered ! 

Wiping  the  great  drops  from  his  forehead, 
he  said  more  calmly  than  he  had  yet  spoken  : 

"  Take  whatever  belongs  to  you,  Joe,  and 
keep  the  farm-money  which  I  gave  you  last 
week,  but  begone  from  here  before  I  come 
home  ;  mind  that,  or  I  won't  answer  for  what 
I  may  do.  Begone  from  here  by  five  o'clock 
this  afternoon,  as  you  value  your  life.  To 
morrow,  I  shall  take  Semanthy  to  her  moth 
er's,  and  in  another  day  I  shall  be  gone 
myself." 

He  spoke  the  last  words  more  to  himself 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


than  to  his  brother,  and  again  his  haggard 
eyes  wandered  over  field  and  wood,  and  dis 
tant  ocean-view,  with  the  strange,  sad  gaze  of 
one  who  looks  with  new  eyes  upon  the  dear 
spot  he  leaves  forever. 

Joe,  stealing  a  glance  upward,  caught  the 
softened  expression  of  his  brother's  face,  and, 
after  a  moment's  hesitation,  asked  deprecat- 
ingly  : 

"  Why  can't  you  let  me  try  to  explain  a  lit 
tle?" 

"  Explain  !"  interposed  the  other  fiercely. 
"  Do  you  think  I  need  any  explanations  ?  Do 
you  take  me  for  a  fool  ?  Be  off,  I  tell  you ! 
Don't  wait  till  the  devil  gets  uppermost  in 
me,  or " 

A  savage  glance  filled  up  the  sentence,  and 
without  waiting  for  another,  Joe  Brewster 
turned  and  made  the  best  of  his  speed  toward 
the  shelter  of  the  grove  whence  he  had 
emerged.  At  the  same  moment,  Mrs.  Brew 
ster  appeared  at  the  door,  followed  by  a  girl 
of  about  twelve  years  of  age,  meanly  dressed, 
tall  and  gaunt,  and  with  her  face  as  nearly  j 
hidden  as  possible  beneath  a  large  cape-bon 
net  made  of  striped  print.  Between  them, 
these  two  carried  a  small  round  trunk,  cov 
ered  with  horse-hair,  which  they  placed  in  the 
back  of  the  wagon.  The  girl  then  came  for 
ward  to  the  step,  but  her  father,  without  look 
ing  round,  and  with  a  backward  motion  of  the 
hand,  repulsed  her,  saying  shortly  : 

,'^Get  in  behind,  and  sit  on  the  trunk ;  I 
don't  want  you  here." 

And  as  Ruth  silently  obeyed,  he  continued 
still,  without  looking  round  : 

'•  Semanthy,  you  can  put  up  every  thing  in 
the  house  that  you  brought  to  it,  and  whatever 
else  you've  any  claim  to  ;  but  see  that  you 
don't  touch  a  thing  that  was  Mary's — mind  j 
you    that !     To-morrow    morning,   you'll    go  . 
home  to  your  mother ;  and  if  she  wants  to 
know  why  you've  come,  I'll  tell  her." 

Still,  without  looking  round,  he  gathered 
up  the  reins  and  drove  away — away  from  the 
house  where  he  had  been  born,  where  he  had 
lived  ten  happy  years  with  the  wife  whose 
white  head-stone  now  looked  farewell  from 
the  far  hill-side — from  the  home  which,  to  his 
mind,  had  of  a  sudden  grown  less  a  home 
than  the  narrow  bound  beside  that  dead  wife 
where  he  had  always  thought  to  be  laid. 

Away  from  home,  and  the  memories  of 
forty  peaceful  years,  drove  Peleg  Brewster, 
and  the  rustling  shadows  of  the  pine-wood  re 


ceived  him  and  hid  him,  and  threw  them 
selves  an  impassable,  if  impalpable,  barrier 
between  him  and  that  home  forever. 


CHAPTER  II. 
MARSTON'S  CHOICE. 

FOLLOWING  the  waters  of  Milvor  Branch  ten 
miles  back  from  "  The  Haven,"  as  Milvor  folk 
loved  to  call  their  little  seaport,  one  finds  their 
source  in  the  confluence  of  two  or  three  merry 
little  brooks  near  the  foot  of  Moloch  Moun 
tain.  Each  one  of  these  brooks  is  a  beauty  in 
its  way,  and  as  full  of  character  as  most  beau 
ties  are  not ;  but  the  loveliest,  the  most  piq 
uant,  and  utterly  fascinating  of  them  all  is  the 
tricksy  watercourse  known  as  the  Millbrook. 
As  the  name  implies,  the  little  stream  has 
been  utilized,  or  rather  practicalized ;  for  let 
no  man  deny  that  beauty  is  also  use,  and 
that  to  be  is  to  be  utilized ;  but  it  chanced 
one  day  that  Millbrook,  dancing  along  in 
her  usual  heedless  fashion,  found  a  barrier 
across  her  path,  and  after  a  little  pause  of  in 
dignant  astonishment,  gathered  her  forces  and 
leaped  it.  The  fall  was  not  high,  and  rather 
enjoying  it  than  otherwise,  the  brook,  hurry 
ing  on,  next  encountered  a  large  wooden  wheel, 
which,  as  she  dashed  through  and  by,  began 
to  revolve — slowly  at  first,  then  faster,  snatch 
ing  up  masses  of  the  bright  water,  scattering 
them  in  the  sunshine,  and  letting  them  fall 
again  into  the  sparkling  torrent,  like  a  giant 
baby  playing  with  his  mother's  diamonds. 

"Ha!  ha!"  laughed  the  brook.  "This  is 
fun — now,  isn't  it  ?"  and  slipping  by  the  wheel, 
she  danced  out  into  the  sunlight  again,  all 
dimpled  with  laughter  and  bubbling  with  fun, 
as  she  held  her  course  to  the  rendezvous  where 
she  and  her  sisters  were  to  join  forces  and  re- 
christen  themselves  Milvor  Branch. 

And  from  that  day  to  this,  Millbrook  tum 
bles  over  the  dam  and  through  the  wheel — not 
because  she  can't  help  it — oh  !  no  ;  but  because 
it  is  so  capital  a  joke,  and  really  such  an 
amusing  little  variety  to  the  old  routine  ;  and 
always  when  she  reappears,  it  is  with  a  whirl 
and  a  slide,  and  bubbling  and  dimpling  all 
over  with  fun,  and  a  new  joy  in  sunshine 
and  liberty.  But  one  cannot  expect  human 
nature  to  go  to  school  to  the  brooks,  or  if  he 
does,  he  will  probably  be  disappointed. 

Just  where  Millbrook,  yet  unconscious  of 
what  life  means,  comes  rioting  down  the  side 
of  Moloch  Mountain,  and,  making  a  sudden 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


fantastic  twist,  crosses  the  path  ascending  that 
eminence,  two  lovers  lingered  to  watch  the 
setting  of  the  sun  whose  rising  had  seen  Peleg 
Brewster  sitting  before  his  farm-house  door, 
and  bidding  good-by  to  the  familiar  scenes 
and  memories  of  a  lifetime. 

Two  lovers,  and  yet  as  unloverlike  as  a  six- 
months'  married  couple,  with  whom  the  hon 
eymoon  is  over,  and  the  serene  sun  of  mar 
riage  not  yet  risen;  forMarston  Brent,  leaning 
against  a  tree-boll,  with  his  arms  folded,  his 
heavy  jaw  set,  and  his  black  brows  drawn 
low  over  his  moody  eyes,  looked  more  like  a 
Brutus  than  a  Romeo ;  and  Beatrice  Wansted, 
Bpite  of  her  yellow  hair  and  soft  hazel  eyes, 
had  more  of  Kate  than  Juliet  in  her  present 
mien. 

Was  it  an  odd  chance,  a  presentiment,  or  a 
cause  working  out  its  own  effect,  that  had  led 
the  girl's  dead  mother  to  call  her  Beatrice  ? 
One  thing  was  certain, that  when  Alice  Wansted 
returned  a  poor  widow  to  her  father's  house, 
the  only  relic  of  her  brief  magnificence  that 
she  brought  with  her  was  an  exquisite  copy  of 
the  Cenci,  done  by  a  young  Italian  artist  whom 
Arthur  Wansted  had  fancied  to  patronize  dur 
ing  the  winter  in  Rome  that  had  opened  a  new 
life  to  his  young  wife,  and  ended  in  his  own 
death.  So.the  poor  young  widow.creepinghome 
to  the  quiet  country  fireside  where  she  had  been 
born,  brought  hardly  more  than  this  exquisite 
picture,  her  broken  heart,  and  the   unborn 
child  whom,  with  one  of  the  few  faint  breaths 
drawn  between  its  birth  and  her  own  death, 
she  named  Beatrice.    The  desire  was  heeded, 
as  dying  people's  wishes  occasionally  are,  and 
the  little  girl,  developing,  year  by  year,  into 
rarer  beauty,  developed  too  so  striking  a  re 
semblance  to  the  pictured  face  she  best  loved 
to'  contemplate,  that  the  country-folk  who  vis 
ited  at  the  old  house  could  not  be  persuaded 
but  that  the  picture  was  a  likeness  of  Mrs. 
Wansted,   although  her    husband    and    the 
artist  might,  perhaps,  have  given  it  the  un 
toward  name  now  borne  by  the  child.    Even 
the  expression,  the  melancholy   beseeching, 
mingled  with  an  indomitable  resolution, "the 
stern,  yet  piteous  look,"  that  tells  the  story  of 
Beatrice  Cenci  to-day,  from   Guido's  canvas, 
is  it  spoke  from  her  living  lineaments  two 
hundred  years  ago,  was  to  be  found,  latent 
as    yet,  perhaps,  in  this  young  girl's  face 
There,  too,  the  sensitive  and  exquisite  lines 
that  told  of  a  heart  to  love  till  death  ;  a  pride 
that  would  hide  that  love  beneath  the  ruin  of 


a  life  ;  passion,  resolution,  and  over  all  an  in 
vincible  purity  and  refinement. 

Just  now,  however,  that  fair  face  expressed 
no  more  than  vexation  and  astonishment,  as, 
looking  up  in  her  lover's  face,  Beatrice  quietly 


asked : 

You  don't  mean  to  refuse  my  uncle's  offer, 
do  you  ?" 

"  Why,  yes,  Beatrice ;  I  have  just  explained 
to  you  that  I  should  do  so,  and  why." 

"  What  folly !"  ejaculated  the  young  lady 
pettishly.  "  He  said  himself  that  before  ten 
years  were  out,  you  might  be  an  equal  partner 
with  himself,  and  meantime  would  be  sure  of 
a  handsome  salary." 

Marston  Brent  raised  his  dark  head  a  trifle 
higher,  and  said  quietly : 

"  I  prefer  to  be  my  own  master  even  for  ten 
years." 

"  And  you  prefer  to  become  a  miserable — 
what  shall  I  call  your  future  occupation  ? — 
wood-chopper,  perhaps,  to  becoming  a  mer 
chant  prince?"  asked  Beatrice  bitingly. 

"  I  prefer  the  woods  to  the  cities,  nature  to 
trade — yes,"  replied  her  lover. 

"  And  your  own  will  to  my  wishes  ?" 

"  My  own  judgment  to  your  fancies." 

"  Fancy  !  No  ;  it  is  something  more  than 
fancy  that  makes  my  taste  and  my  pride,  my 
whole  nature  indeed,  revolt  from  the  life  you 
propose  to  me,  especially  when  we  see  the 
way  so  fairly  opened  to  another." 

"  But,  Beatrice,  don't  you  perceive  that  what 
you  wish  is  to  sacrifice  my  pride  to  yours  ?  It 
is  not  a  very  amiable  quality,  to  be  sure,  but  as 
I  have  unfortunately  as  large  a  share  as  your 
self,  you  must  allow  me  to  consult  it  a  little  ; 
and  to  become  a  clerk  in  your  uncle's  count 
ing-house  would  injure  my  pride  far  more 
severely  than  the  mode  of  life  at  which  you 
sneer  could  injure  yours." 

Miss  Wansted  plucked  a  handful  of  leaves 
from  the  alder  beside  her,  and  cast  them 
into  the  stream  with  a  scornful  air,  but  other 
wise  made  no  reply 

Marston  Brent  looked  down  at  her  with  the 
half  angry,  half-loving  air  of  a  man  at  once 
vexed  and  charmed  with  his  antagonist,  and 
throwing  himself  upon  the  sward  beside  her, 
seized  her  hand,  saying  good-humoredly : 

"  Come,  Trix,  don't  be  unreasonable.  Wait 
until  I  set  my  plans  once  more  before  you,  and 
see  if  I  cannot  make  you  look  at  them  through 
my  eyes.  When  the  news  of  my  father's  death 
reached  me,  you  know,  I  was  on  my  way  home 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


from  the  West,  and  bad  been  for  some  weeks 
visiting  Mills  in  bis  logging  camp,  and  you 
Lave  no  idea  of  tbe  sport  we  found — 

"  You  told  me  all  tbat,"  interposed  Miss 
Wansted,  just  a  little  scornfully. 

"  Excuse  me.  I  remember  tbat  I  did.  I  will 
try  not  to  weary  you  more  tban  I  can  avoid. 
Mills  bad  just  decided,  as  I  left,  to  return  to 
tbe  city  and  resume  bis  former  business,  and 
was  anxious  tbat  I  sbould  purchase  bis  claim, 
including  tbe  bark-mill,  tannery,  and  all  tbe 
logging  shanties  and  tools,  offering  them  at 
a  bargain.  I  had  no  money  then  ;  but  now, 
after  settling  my  father's  affairs,  I  find  myself 
master  of  very  nearly  the  whole  sum  Mills 
demanded,  and  shall  no  doubt  be  able  to 
make  easy  terms  with  him  for  the  remainder. 
Then,  Beatrice,  tbe  rest  depends  upon  my  own 
strength,  energy,  and  ambition,  and  I  hope  it  is 
not  boasting  in  me  to  say,  I  have  no  fear  of 
failing  in  either  of  tbe  three." 

He  raised  bis  eyes  with  a  proud  smile  to 
those  of  bis  betrothed,  but  found  there  no  an 
swering  expression.  No  marble  could  have 
been  colder  than  Miss  Wansted's  face  as  she 
inquired : 

"  And  do  you  propose  to  take  me  to  one  of 
the  '  shanties,'  as  you  call  them,  and  have 
me  cook  tbe  pork  and  potatoes  for  you  and 
ycrur  wood-choppers  ?" 

Brent  bit  bis  lip,  flushing  redly  the  while, 
but  answered  patiently  : 

"  1  told  you — did  I  not  ? — that  I  am  moaning 
in  the  spring  to  build  a  pretty  cottage  beside 
the  river,  and  ask  you  to  furnish  it  to  suit 
your  own  taste.  Could  not  you  be  happy  in 
such  a  home  with  me,  Beatrice,  though  it 
might  be  many  a  mile  from  city  or  watering- 
place?" 

Tbe  girl  was  silent,  and  be  continued  with 
a  simple  pathos  in  his  voice,  the  more  touch 
ing  from  contrast  with  the  rugged  strength 
and  energy  of  his  former  tone  : 

"  Only  have  faith  and  patience,  Trix,  and  I 
promise  that  you  shall  be  a  rich  woman  be 
fore  you  are  twenty  years  older — perhaps  be 
fore  ten  years.  Only  give  me  time  and  the 
heart  to  work,  knowing  that  I  am  working 
for  you,  and  I  can  do  any  thing." 

"  In  twenty  years,  I  shall  be  forty  years  old, 
and  half  my  life  will  have  been  spent  in  a 
wilderness.  How  shall  I  be  fitted  for  the  so 
ciety  I  may  then  have  an  opportunity  of  en 
joying?"  asked  Beatrice  sullenly.  "Not  tbat 
I  would  refuse  to  consent  even  to  this,"  added 


she  presently  in  a  softened  tone,  "  if  you  had 
no  other  prospect  or  hope.  But  to  contrast 
with  this  dreary  future,  here  is  my  uncle's 
letter,  offering  you  a  position  in  one  of  tha 
first  mercantile  houses  in  the  city,  and  with 
such  prospects  as  be  himself  says  not  one 
young  man  in  a  hundred  can  command.  It  ia 
downright  folly  and  perversity  for  you  to  re 
fuse,  and  I  will  never  consent.  Give  up  the 
woods,  or  give  up " 

"  Stop,  Beatrice !  Don't  say  that,  and  don't 
let  us  become  excited  or  ill-tempered,"  said 
Marston,  dropping  the  hand  he  had  held  un 
til  now,  and  sitting  upright.  Had  Beatrice 
glanced  then  at  his  face,  and  read  there  the 
nature  she  had  never  yet  learned  to  know, 
tbe  whole  course  of  her  life  might  have  been 
changed  by  the  brief  lesson  ;  but  she  only  tore 
at  the  alder-leaves  in  her  hand,  and  set  her 
lips  more  firmly  together. 

"  The  time  has  come,"  said  Marston  very 
patiently,  "  to  you  and  me  tbat  must  come  to 
all  people  who  try  to  make  their  two  lives  run 
in  one  channel.  One  of  us  must  yield  a  de 
cided  wish,  opinion,  and  plan  to  tbe  other. 
Now,  Trix,  in  choosing  the  occupation  and 
whole  character  of  my  future  life,  of  my  man- 
work  in  tbe  world,  it  cannot  be  doubted  that 
my  own  capacities,  tastes,  and  ideas  of  inde 
pendence  should  be  the  first  things  to  be  con 
sulted,  nor  can  it  be  doubted  tbat  these  are 
better  known  to  mo  than  they  can  be  to  you. 
I  have  chosen,  and  I  am  very  sure  tbat  I  have 
chosen  rightly.  More  tban  tbat,"  and  be 
paused  a  moment,  then  went  on  full-voiced, 
"  I  shall  not  alter  my  decision  ;  but  though  I 
cannot  give  up  my  manhood  to  please  you, 
Beatrice,  there  is  hardly  any  thing  else  1  would 
not  do  ;  and  I  need  not  tell  you  again  that 
your  love  is  the  sweetest  and  dearest  thing  in 
life  to  me,  and  that  to  call  you  wife  has  been 
for  months  the  fondest  hope  I  have  ever 
known.  Darling,  do  not  fear  that  you  shall 
suffer  want  or  care  in  our  forest-home,  or  that 
any  ill  shall  reach  you  other  than  those " 

"Stop,  if  you  please,  Mr.  Brent,"  said  a 
clear,  cold  voice ;  and  Marston,  raising  his 
honest  eyes  to  those  of  his  mistress,  felt  an 
involuntary  thrill  of  admiration,  for  never 
had  Beatrice  Wansted  looked  so  beautiful  as 
now,  with  her  hazel  eyes  wide  and  bright,  her 
creamy  cheek  lightly  flushed,  and  her  mouth 
curved  with  pride  and  scorn. 

"  You  have  given  your  decision,"  said  she 
slowly,  "  now  hear  mine  :  I  will  never  follow 


10 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


you  to  the  wigwam  you  offer.    I  will  never  I  again.    You  have  made  me  love  you,  and  now 


marry  you  if  you  persist  in  your  refusal  to  ac 
cept  my  uncle's  offer.  Choose  this  moment 
between  your  will — and  me." 

With  an  involuntary  motion,  Marston 
grasped  her  wrist,  and  bent  his  head  until 
their  eyes  confronted  :  in  his  a  sudden  anguish, 
in  hers  a  scornful  assurance — in  each  an  in 
domitable  will.  He  was  the  first  to  speak  : 

"Beatrice,  be  careful.  You  know  that  I 
love  you,  heart  and  soul,  and  with  every  fibre 
of  my  whole  body.  You  know  that  to  part 
from  you  in  this  way  would  be  like  dragging 
that  heart  and  body  asunder.  But  you  do  not 
know,  you  cannot  know,  that  to  go  back  from 
my  pledged  word,  my  solemn  purpose,  would 
be  worse.  Beatrice,  I  cannot ;  I  tell  you  I 
cannot  yield  to  you.  For  God's  sake,  show  in 
this  moment  that  you  have  a  woman's  softer 
nature,  and  save  both  our  lives  from  wreck." 

She  looked  him  steadily  in  the  face,  marked 
with  a  sort  of  wonder  the  terrible  emotion 
that  in  one  moment  had  drawn  and  blanched 
it  until  it  might  have  been  the  picture  of  a 
malefactor  expiring  under  torture,  and  then 
ehe  slowly  repeated  : 

"  Choose  between  your  own  will  and  me." 

"  Not  now.  Let  us  go  home  and  wait  a  lit 
tle — wait  perhaps  until  I  have  been  away  a 
year,  and  then  I  will  come  and  ask  you  again. 
You  shall  be  free  as  air  in  the  mean  time — 
only  you  will  let  me  come  and  ask  again 
when  the  year  is  over,  and  the  little  cottage 
built?" 

His  deep  voice  pleaded  now  like  that  of  a 
little  child,  and  the  tears  stood  in  his  dark 
eyes  as  he  sought  hers,  which  for  a  moment 
had  turned  aside. 

"  Do  you  mean  by  let  us  wait  that  perhaps 
by  morning  you  may  change  your  mind  V  Of 
course,  after  a  year,  you  could  not,"  said  Bea 
trice  coldly. 

"  My  God  !  Have  I  not  told  you  that  I  can 
not  change?  Ask  the  rocks,  the  trees,  the 
water  to  change,  but  not  me.  It  is  not  in  me 
anywhere.  It  can  never  be,"  burst  out  Mars- 
ton  in  a  tone  of  desperate  agony. 

"  Then  we  part  this  moment,  and  forever," 
said  Beatrice,  the  whole  passion  of  her  nature 
flaring  up  through  the  icy  mask  she  had  as 
sumed.  "  If  you  cannot  and  will  not  yield  to 
me  in  this,  neither  will  I  yield  to  you.  I  will 
not  wait ;  no,  not  one  hour,  one  moment.  I 
will  never  see  you,  never  speak  to  you,  or,  if 
I  can  help  it,  breathe  the  same  air  with  you 


you  wish  to  make  a  slave  of  me  through  that 
love.  You  are  hard,  and  selfish,  and  obsti 
nate,  and  I  am  well  released  from  you.'1 

She  rose  to  her  feet ;  he  too,  and  holding 
her  by  the  shoulders,  looked  into  her  face,  his 
own  white  and  set. 

"  Beatrice,"  said  he  slowly,  "  you  are  spoil 
ing  both  our  lives.  Have  a  care,  for  you  will 
suffer  too.  I  will  not  take  your  answer  now  ; 
I  will  write  to  you  from  Wahtahree." 

He  was  turning  away,  but  she  caught  him 
passionately  by  the  hand.  He  turned  and 
met  the  fiery  devil  in  her  eyes  with  a  look  of 
unmoved  determination. 

"  Stop  !"  cried  she,  "  stop  and  hear  me  !  If 
you  write  to  me,  I  will  return  your  letter  un 
opened  ;  if  you  try  to  see  me,  I  will  order  you 
from  my  doors  ;  if  you  send  me  a  message,  I 
will  not  listen  to  it ;  if  you  leave  me  now,  you 
leave  me  forever — forever,  Marston  Brent, 
though  you  come  but  to-morrow  to  lay  your 
self  with  the  world's  wealth  at  my  feet.  Now 
choose,  and  for  the  last  time — your  own  will 
or  my  love." 

A  moment,  another,  and  another  went  by, 
and  still  he  stood  looking  into  her  white  face 
and  burning  eyes,  with  a  solemn  earnestness 
conquering  the  pain  and  the  bitterness  that 
had  so  wrung  his  soul.  At  last  he  said  : 

"  Beatrice,  swear  before  God  that  what  you 
say  you  mean." 

The  girl  lifted  her  palm  to  heaven.  Mars- 
ton  caught  it  in  his  own,  and  a  sudden  terror 
sprung  into  his  eyes  as  he  cried  : 

"  Oh  !  think  once  more.  Remember  how  I 
love  you,  remember  that  the  long  future  lies 
before  us,  and  that  your  next  words  make  or 
mar  it  forever.  Wait  one  moment,  think  one 
moment." 

But  Beatrice,  tearing  away  her  hand,  lifted 
it  again  to  heaven,  and  said  slowly  : 

"I  swear  before  God  that  what  I  have  just 
said  I  mean  and  will  do.  Now  choose,  Mars- 
ton  Brent." 

"  I  choose — liberty,"  said  he,  and  without 
another  word,  they  parted,  going  by  different 
paths,  down  the  mountain-side  which  they 
had  climbed,  his  arm  about  her  waist,  her 
hand  locked  in  his. 

CHAPTER  m. 
THE  OLD  GARKISON. 

THE  autumn  twilight  was  deepening  into 
night  as  Beatrice  Wansted  reached  her  home, 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


11 


and  paused,  before  pushing  open  the  swinging 
gate,  to  look  at  it  with  a  strange  distaste. 

"  How  can  I  go  in  and  sit  down  as  if  noth 
ing  had  happened  ?  How  can  I  smile,  anc 
talk,  and  live  day  after  day  ?  How  long  will 
it  be  before  I  break  out  into  raving  madness 
crazed  by  the  cold  monotony  of  such  a  life — 
such  a  life  for  me?" 

So  whispering,  she  leaned  upon  the  mossy 
fence,  and  stared  at  the  old  house  with  such 
distasteful  interest  as  a  trappist,  newly  hid 
den  but  not  divorced  from  the  world,  might 
feel  for  the  spot  where  he  is  bid  to  dig  his 
future  grave. 

And  yet  the  Old  Garrison,  as  Milvor  called 
it,  was  no  uncheerful  dwelling,  albeit  vener 
able  and  quaint  as  its  origin  promised.  More 
than  two  hundred  years  ago — not  fifty  after 
Beatrice  Cenci  had  expiated  upon  the  scaffold 
her  most  righteous  crime — a  party  of  Puritans, 
straying  from  the  settlement  about  Plymouth 
Bay,  had  urged  their  skiff  up  Milvor  Branch, 
and  at  its  head  had  diverged  into  Millbrook, 
following  the  bright  course  of  its  waters,  un 
til,  not  far  from  the  mouth,  they  curved  in  a 
sudden  bend  about  a  pretty  knoll  surrounded 
by  rich  meadow-land.  Here  they  halted,  and 
here  one  of  the  party,  Peleg  Barstow  by  name, 
decided  to  remain ;  and  being  a  godly  and  just 
man,  bestowed  such  treasure  of  beads,  gun 
powder,  cloth,  and,  it  may  be,  less  innocent 
wares,  upon  the  Indian  owners,  as  induced 
them  to  affix  their  signs-manual  to  a  deed,  yet 
extant  in  the  old  house,  by  which  they  made 
over  to  Peleg  Barstow  and  his  heirs  forever 
all  right  and  title  to  knoll,  meadows,  upland, 
brook,  and  the  herring  which  crowded  its  mer 
ry  waters,  forever  and  a  day. 

But — alas  !  that  we  should  say  it — not  fifty 
years  later,  Peleg  and  his  sons  found  them 
selves  obliged  to  fortify  theirdwelling  against 
the  invasion  of  these  same  savage  allies,  now 
become  their  cruel  enemies  ;  and  so  successfully 
did  they  strengthen  its  defences  that  the 
women  and  children  for  miles  around  flocked 
to  them  for  .shelter,  and  the  house  received  the 
name  it  has  since  retained,  and  is  still  known 
as  the  Old  Garrison. 

But  to  the  few  rooms  of  the  original  house 
with  their  walls  three  feet  in  thickness,  and 
their  leaden  casements  witli  tiny  diamond- 
shaped  panes,  came  to  be  added,  by  successive 
generations  of  Barstows,  additions  of  such 
Btyle  and  size  as  suited  the  wants  or  the  taste 
of  the  builders,  co  that  the  house  stood  final 


ly  a  sort  of  hieroglyphic  genealogy  of  the 
race,  and  Beatrice  Wansted  might  have  read, 
had  she  been  so  minded,  the  story  of  her  an 
cestors  in  the  motley  architecture  of  the  home 
they  had  bequeathed  her. 

But  Time  has  power  over  none  but  his 
own  dominion,  and  though  the  work  of  old 
Peleg  Barstow's  hands  had  well-nigh  mingled 
with  the  dust  that  had  once  been  flesh  and 
bones  of  that  sturdy  old  Puritan,  the  knoll 
and  the  brook,  and  human  nature  remained 
much  as  they  had  been  in  his  day  ;  and  this 
his  fair  descendant  stood  contemplating  her 
home  in  the  gray  twilight,  with  far  less 
thought  of  tbe  past  it  represented,  than  of  her 
own  future,  linked  it  might  be  to  those  crum 
bling  walls — it  might  be  to  far  different  scenes. 
"But  never,"  whispered  Beatrice  again,  as 
she  softly  swung  open  the  gate,  "  never  to  be, 
passed  at  your  side,  or  beneath  your  feet, 
Marston  Brent — never — never !" 

She  murmured  the  words  again  and  again, 
the  bitter  refrain  of  a  dreary  song,  as  she 
lingered  up  the  narrow  path  whose  box-bor 
ders,  brushed  by  her  garments,  gave  out  a 
faint,  melancholy  perfume,  a  perfume  of  night 
and  autumn,  of  dead  memories  and  hopes, 
and  life  slowly  lapsing  into  death,  and  then  de 
cay  and  nothingness. 

Fine  ladies  have  their  fancies,  and  in  after 
years  it  was  noted  as  one  of  Miss  Wansted'a 
whims  to  detest  the  sight  or  smell  of  box- 
plants. 

Near  the  door  she  paused,  and  stood  look 
ing  in  at  the  unshuttered  window,  with  the 
same  half-loathing  interest  that  had  held  her 
at  the  garden-gate. 

She  saw  a  room  low  and  large,  its  ceiling 
divided  by  two  heavy  beams  crossing  each 
ather  in  the  centre.  Other  beams  stood  sentry 
n  the  corners,  and  ran  like  a  low  bench 
around  the  side  of  the  room.  To  one  of  thete 
a  descendant  of  Peleg  Barstow,  crazed  through 
religious  fanaticism,  had  been  chained  by  his 
"amily,  and  then  had  dragged  out  the  twenty 
iveary  years  lying  between  such  strange  im 
prisonment  and  death.  The  scar  worn  by  his 
;hain  still  stared  from  the  heavy  beam — a 
character,  and  a  significant  one,  in  the  hiero- 
'lyphic  history  unconsciously  left  behind  by 
the  successive  occupants  of  the  Old  Garrison. 
At  one  end  of  the  room  yawned  a  fireplace 
so  wide;  that  the  bright  copper  andirons,  with 
their  load  of  three-foot  maple  logs,  were 
quite  at  one  end  of  it,  while  at  the  other  end 


12 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAN. 


and  in  the  back  of  the  chimney  was  the  door 
of  a  great  brick  oven,  and  below  it  a  bench 
where  Beatrice,  a  little  rebellious  imp,  had 
often  been  set  to  recover  from  the  effects  of 
too  long  a  ramble  in  the  winter  woods,  or  an 
involuntary  immersion  in  the  icy  waters  of 
the  brook. 

In  one  of  the  deep  recesses  of  the  windows 
lay  an  enormous  tortoise-shell  cat,  her  fore 
paws  curled  under  her  breast,  her  yellow 
eyes  half  closed,  and  winking  slowly  at  the 
fire.  Beyond  her  in  the  corner  stood  a  clock, 
reaching  from  floor  to  ceiling,  sedate  and 
grave,  in  spite  of  the  glittering  brass  orna 
ments  which  it  wore  as  meekly  as  an  old 
lady  wears  the  gold  beads  she  retains  from 
habit,  although  the  vanities  of  youth  have  long 
been  laid  aside. 

Above  the  high  mantle-shelf  was  fastened 
the  head  and  branching  antlers  of  a  deer, 
and  as  the  firelight  rose  and  fell,  its  shadow, 
changing  in  every  fantastic  fashion,  danced 
upon  the  ceiling — now  spreading  to  its  farthest 
limit,  in  semblance  of  a  tangled  arabesque; 
aow  shrinking  to  such  narrow  limits  and  so 
defined  a  shape  that  it  might  have  been  the 
ghost  of  the  murdered  stag  peering  down 
into  the  room  and  demanding  restitution  of 
his  stolen  honors. 

All  alone  in  his  deep  arm-chair,  before  the 
fire,  sat  an  old  man — a  man  so  old  that  his 
hair,  long  and  thick  and  soft,  had  not  one 
dark  thread  left  in  its  creamy  masses ;  that 
his  face  was  not  lined,  but  grained  with 
wrinkles ;  that  his  toothless  jaws  met  in  a 
straight,  deep  line,  hiding  in  great  measure 
the  expression  of  the  mouth  ;  and  his  form 
was  bowed  and  trembling,  even  as  he  sat  mo 
tionless  before  the  fire.  His  eyes,  shrewd  and 
kindly,  even  through  the  dimness  of  age, 
were  fixed  upon  the  blaze,  and  his  white  and 
shapely  hands  were  folded  meditatively  upon 
his  knee.  A  charming  picture  of  serene  old 
age,  but  Beatrice  regarded  it  with  a  shiver. 

"  Ninety-four  years  old !"  murmured  she, 
"and  I  but  twenty.  If  I  should  live  till 
then !" 

She  moaned  impatiently,  and  twisted  her 
fingers  within  each  other  in  a  gesture  of  fierce 
protest. 

A  door  opened  in  the  back  of  the  room,  and 
two  women  entered — one  of  them  nearly  as 
old  as  the  dreamer  before  the  fire,  the  other 
perhaps  fifty  years  younger,  but  claiming 
neither  the  beauty  of  youth  nor  age  ;  for  while 


losing  the  bloom  of  one,  she  had  not  yet  ac 
quired  the  serenity  of  the  other  ;  and  with  her 
tall  and  angular  figure,  sharp  features,  abun 
dant  red  hair,  and  quick  gray  eyes,  contrasted 
unfavorably  enough  with  the  placid  patriarch 
and  his  cheery,  active  wife. 

Beatrice  looked  at  her,  and  made  a  little 
mutinous  gesture,  full  of  defiant  expression. 

'And  to  live  with  Aunt  Rachel  all  my 
days,  or  until  I  come  to  be  just  like  her!" 
muttered  she ;  and  slowly  raising  the  latch, 
she  passed  through  a  square  passage  into  the 
room  where  the  family  were  collected.  All 
looked  up  at  her  entrance,  and  saluted  her 
variously. 

"  Well,  daughter,"  said  the  old  man.  "  So 
you  have  finished  your  wanderings  for  one 
day  more.  Night  brings  the  stray  lambs 
home,  but  they  go  out  with  the  sun  again." 

"  You  shouldn't  linger  out  in  the  night- 
dews  so,  child,"  chimed  in  his  wife.  "It's 
dreadful  unwholesome  to  breathe  the  air  at 
this  time  of  day.  I  declare,  you're  as  pale  as 
a  ghost — and  no  wonder.  Sit  to  the  fire  and 
heat  the  soles  of  your  feet.  Won't  you  drink 
a  little  balm-tea  if  I  make  it  for  you?  It's 
proper  good  with  sugar  in  it ;  or  you  can  have 
some  tansy  if  you  like  it  better." 

"  Just  look  at  that  dress  round  the  bottom, 
and  then  your  skirt,  Beatrice !  Where  have 
you  been  trailing  them  ?  I  can  tell  you, 
miss,  if  you  had  the  washing  or  the  starching 
or  the  ironing  to  do,  you  wouldn't  be  quite 
so  careless  of  your  things.  You  put  them  on 
clean  this  afternoon,  didn't  you?  And  where 
is  Marston  ?" 

Beatrice  stooped  and  kissed  the  hand  her 
grandfather  held  out  to  detain  her,  smiled 
coaxingly  at  her  grandmother,  while  she  said : 

"Please  not  any  balm-tea,  grandma.  I 
will  be  good  without  it."  And  to  her  aunt: 

"  I  have  been  on  Moloch  Mountain,  and  I 
did  put  the  dress  and  skirt  on  clean,  and  I  do 
not  know  where  Mr.  Brent  is  at  this  moment." 

Then  she  passed  on  to  her  own  little  chair 
in  the  farther  corner  of  the  fireplace,  and 
pushing  it  deeper  into  the  shadow,  sat  down, 
and  obediently  dried  her  feet  and  garments, 
drenched  with  the  heavy  dew. 


CHAPTER  IV. 
"WHAT  THE  HUSHES  HID. 

HEART-WOUNDS,  while  they  sink  deeper 
and  last  longer  in  a  woman's  nature,  con 
vey  more  instant  agony  to  the  firm  fibre  and 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


13 


powerful  organization  of  the  man.  So,  while 
Beatrice  Wansted  went  quietly  home,  and 
stopped  at  the  gate  to  speculate  upon  her  fu 
ture — preparing  herself,  as  it  were,  for  the 
slow  death  of  many  a  lingering  year  —  her 
lover  rushed  from  her  presence,  dazed,  blind, 
mad  with  agony,  his  tortured  heart  consenting 
to  no  future,  incredulous  of  any  relief,  present 
or  to  come,  feeling  only  that  his  hope  had 
failed  him,  his  motive  was  gone,  that  earth 
had  lost  its  savor  and  life  its  salt. 

Up  to  the  last  moment,  even  until  he  heard 
her  sternly  call  God  to  witness  her  words,  he 
had  hoped  that  Beatrice  would  repent,  and 
eince,  as  he  had  naively  asserted,  it  was  im 
possible  for  him  to  retract  his  decision,  that 
she  herself  would  yield  to  him,  especially  in 
this  matter,  where,  as  he  still  told  himself,  his 
own  convictions  should  be  final  in  both  their 
minds. 

But  now  that  she  had  decided  against  him, 
and  had  so  solemnly  sealed  her  determination, 
Marston's  own  ideas  of  truth  and  honor,  his 
reverence  for  the  woman  whom  he  adored, 
would  have  withheld  him  from  one  word  of 
argument  or  entreaty,  had  she  remained  for 
ever  in  his  presence.  She  had  taken  her  res 
olution,  and  he  his.  Hers,  sealed  by  a  solemn 
oath,  was  to  him  irrevocable ;  his,  simply 
spoken,  quite  as  much  so.  All  was  over  be 
tween  them,  over  forever ;  and  even  while 
ready  to  dash  his  life  out  against  this  self-cre 
ated  barrier,  it  never  occurred  to  Marston 
Brent  to  try  to  scale  it. 

Wandering  whither  he  knew  not,  moonrise 
found  him  near  the  foot  of  the  mountain  and 
in  its  densest  shadow.  The  wood-path  he  had 
been  unconsciously  pursuing  ended  in  the  se 
cluded  road  skirting  the  base  of  the  moun 
tain,  and  leading  from  Milvor  to  Milvorhaven. 
Beside  this  road,  at  the  point  of  intersection, 
lay  a  sluggish  pool,  product  of  the  mountain 
drainage  retained  in  a  natural  hollow  ;  and, 
leaning  upon  the  broken  roadside-fence,  the 
young  man  stood  staring  into  the  shadow  of 
the  willows  and  alder-bushes  that  had  sprung 
up  around  it.  Hardly  had  he  taken  this  posi 
tion  when  the  sound  of  coming  footsteps  broke 
upon  the  silence,  and  the  figure  of  a  stout  lad, 
dressed  in  farmer's  costume,  appeared  coming 
round  the  turn  of  the  road. 

With  a  gesture  of  annoyance,  Brent  would 
have  plunged  again  into  the  covert  of  the 
wood,  but  the  new-comer  had  already  seen 
him  and  called  cheerily : 


"Good-evening,  Mr.  Brent.  I  was  just  go 
ing  to  your  house,  but  meeting  you  will  save 
me  the  two-mile  walk,  and  after  digging  pota 
toes  all  day,  I'm  willing  enough  to  lose  it." 

Marston  Brent,  staring  steadily  in  the  young 
man's  face,  answered  him  never  a  word;  and  he, 
rather  embarrassed  and  yet  sturdily  self-pos 
sessed,  went  on : 

"  You  know  you  were  talking  to  me  about 
going  into  York  State  with  you  to  learn  lum 
bering  ;  and  the  more  I  think  of  it,  the  more  I 
think  it  will  suit,  and  I've  pretty  much  made 
up  my  mind  to  try.  The  terms  we  talked  of 
the  other  day  suit  me  well  enough  ;  and  any 
way,  I  know  you'll  do  the  fair  thing  by  me, 
and  I'd  as  lief  have  your  word  as  a  lawyer's 
writing ;  but  I  can't  leave  Barstow's  before 
next  week.  When  was  you  calculating  on 
going  ?" 

"To-morrow  morning,"  said  Brent  hoarsely. 

The  boy  whistled  in  dismay. 

"  Why,  I  thought  you  said  the  last  of  the 
week,  cr  the  first  of  next.  I  can't  leave  to 
morrow  morning,  nohow.  Mr.  Barstow  has 
hired  a  man,  but  he  isn't  coming  till  Saturday, 

and to  be  sure  Jabez  Minot  would  come 

and  do  the  chores  night  and  morning  till  then — 
and  to-day  is  Tuesday.  But  I  want  to  go  to 
the  haven  and  haul  my  money  out  of  the  sav 
ings-bank  ;  and,  no,  sir,  I  don't  see  as  I  could 
go  anyway  to-morrow  morning,  but  I  can 
come  alone,  and  if  you  will  give  me  the  direc 
tions,  I  will.  I  suppose  you'd  as  lief  pay  my 
fare  next  week  as  this  ?" 

He  waited  for  an  answer,  but  Brent,  his  el 
bows  on  the  railing,  his  face  buried  in  his 
hands,  had  forgotten  his  presence. 

The  lad  looked  at  him  keenly. 

"  Do  you  feel  bad  anyway,  Mr.  Brent  ?" 
asked  he,  touching  him  on  the  shoulder. 

Brent  started  and  raised  Ins  haggard  face. 
"  What  do  you  want  ?"  asked  he  fiercely. 

''  I  asked  if  you  were  sick  or  anything.  I 
thought  you  seemed  to  feel  bad,"  said  the  boy, 
still  fixing  his  keen  eyes  upon  the  other's 
face,  and  silently  deciding  that  neither  intoxi 
cation  nor  illness  had  produced  the  ghastly 
change  he  saw. 

"  Sick  ?  Oh  !  no,  there's  nothing  the  matter, 
Paul.  A  little  tired  with  walking,  that's  all. 
You  say  you  are  going  with  me  to  Wahtahree. 
[  shall  start  in  the  morning,  before  light  per- 
tiaps.  I  am  going  to  drive  my  horse  and 
wagon  to  Bloom,  where  I  have  sold  it,  and 
;ake  the  cars  there.  You  can  come  to  my 


14 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


house  to-night  and  start  with  me,  if  you  like. 
There,  I  won't  keep  you  from  your  prepara 
tions." 

He  turned  away  with  a  gesture  of  dismis 
sal.  The  boy  looked  intently  at  him  a  mo 
ment,  and  then  walked  slowly  away  without 
audible  reply,  although  to  himself  he  mut 
tered  : 


1  I'll  think  over  it  a  hit  first,  I  reckon.  More 
than  that,  I'll  ask  Miss  Trix.  She'll  know 
what's  up."  He  looked  round  at  the  turn  of 
the  road.  Erent  had  already  forgotten  his 
presence,  and  leaning  his  folded  arms  upon 
the  rail,  was  again  staring  into  the  dark 
shadow  of  the  willows,  his  white  face  showing 
ghastly  and  spectral  against  the  black  back 
ground. 

So  he  stood  when,  an  hour  later,  the  moon, 
climbing  the  crest  of  Moloch  Mountain, 
glanced  athwart  its  shadow,  and  thrusting 
aside  with  slender,  trembling  finger-rays  the 
leaves  of  willow  and  alder,  peered  down  upon 
the  surface  of  the  pool. 

The  black  waters,  sullen  and  irresponsive, 
gave  back  no  dimpling  smile  like  that  with 
which  Millbrook  all  night  long  received  and 
returned  the  kisses  of  the  moon ;  but  as  the  I 
rays,  growing  momently  more  vertical,  plunged  | 
deeper  and  deeper  into  the  leafy  cavern  above  I 
the  pool,  a  strange  horror  and  mystery  gath-  j 
ered  from  its  depths,  and  lay  waiting  till  those 
accusing  fingers  should  reach  and  pluck  it 
forth.  From  the  pendent  leaves,  whose  whis 
per  had  told  the  story  over  and  over  to  the 
shuddering  night ;  from  the  gnarled  and 
writhing  roots,  showing  above  the  water  like 
the  muscles  of  a  tortured  Titan  ;  from  the 
blotched,  unwholesome  palms  of  the  hand- 
like  leaves,  held  up  in  dismay  by  the  foul 
weeds  rooted  beneath  the  tide  ;  from  the  tan 
gled  grasses,  floating  like  the  hair  of  a  drowned 
woman  upon  its  surface  ;  from  the  faint  mist 
gathering  in  the  dark  recesses  of  the  wood,  and 
creeping  out  to  peer  at  the  beholder,  and  see 
how  he  should  bear  it ;  from  the  inarticulate 
murmurs  and  whispers  of  the  night — from 
these,  and  all  these,  gathered  the  horror  and 
the  mystery  the  moon  had  come  to  look  at, 
and,  as  they  gathered,  drew  Marston  Brent 
within  their  circle  and  held  him  there. 

In  vain  did  he  struggle  to  arise  and  flee. 
In  vain  did  he  seek  to  throw  off  the  myste 
rious  chain  binding  body  and  soul  to  the  mo 
ment  he  felt  approaching.  In  vain  even  did 
he  try  to  fix  his  thoughts  upon  his  own 


misery,  and  the  proud  heartlessness  of  his 
mistress. 

Vainly,  vainly.  Moment  by  moment,  the 
slowly-creeping  horror  mastered  all.  Thought, 
memory,  consciousness,  will,  life  itself,  fell, 
one  by  one,  within  its  grasp,  and  all  were  con 
centrated  in  a  nameless  horror,  a  breathless 
expectancy  of  what  must  come. 

Slowly  the  moon  crept  on  ;  slowly  and  surely 
the  relentless  fingers  stole  deeper  and  deeper 
into  the  shadow — searching,  groping  always 


"A  white,  wfdte  face,  with  wide-open  Uack  eyes." 

for  what  they  had  come  to  seek,  until  in  the 
blackest  recess  of  the  covert  they  found  it,  and 
with  one  shuddering  flash  seized  and  held  it. 
A  white,  white  face,  with  wide  open  black 
eyes  staring  horribly  at  the  sky  ;  thick  dark 
hair,  with  which  the  waters,  moved  by  a  little 
shivering  breeze,  toyed  in  ghastly  fondness ; 
shrunken  lips,  showing  the  teeth  strongly 
clenched  beneath ;  a  dim  figure  half  hidden 
among  the  gnarled  roots  ;  a  hand  awfully  out 
stretched,  as  in  dumb  appeal — such  was  the 
aspect,  such  the  form  of  the  slowly  gathering 
mystery  and  terror — such  the  secret  that  the 
sullen  pool  had  vainly  tried  to  hide — such  the 
secret  plucked  from  its  recesses  by  the  resist 
less  grasp  of  light  and  truth. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


15 


Marston  Brent,  staring  incredulously  at  tlie 
awful  thing  below  him,  watched  while  one 
feature,  then  another,  took  form,  vainly  trying 
the  while  to  doubt  the  evidence  of  his  own 
senses,  vainly  arguing  that  it  was  but  the 
flickering  light,  the  changing  shadows,  his 
own  disturbed  imagination,  that  had  formed 
this  ghastly  image  from  the  creeping  mists 
of  the  pool,  and  that  he  should  see  it  presently 
waver  and  change  to  some  other  if  not  less 
hideous  form.  But  still  as  he  gazed,  the 
white  face  and  staring  eyeballs  grew  more 
distinct  and  personal  ;  the  figure  assumed 
more  unmistakably  human  proportions ;  the 
stiff  white  hand  seemed  to  beckon  more  and 
more  imperiously  to  him  for  aid  and  vengeance. 

Slowly  and  with  effort,  he  drew  himself  to 
a  standing  posture,  and  looked  stealthily 
about  him,  half  expecting  to  find  the  familiar 
scene  changed  by  sudden  glamourie  to  one  of 
those  wild  regions  where  the  soul,  wandering 
forlorn,  lapses  from  horror  to  horror,  and 
wastes  itself  in  vague  and  unfruitful  efforts  to 
escape  an  unknown  evil. 

But  the  mild  autumn  night  lay  serene  and 
beautiful  about  him.  The  moon,  now  riding 
high  in  heaven,  looked  calmly  down,  content 
in  having  brought  human  consciousness  to 
human  ill,  and  willing  to  leave  the  sequel  to 
the  sure  hand  of  justice. 

Far  down  in  the  valley  twinkled  the  lights 
of  the  village  with  cheerful  intimation  of  home 
and  companionship  within  reach.  A  solitary 
farm-dog  drowsily  bayed  the  moon,  and  the 
clock  of  the  little  church  struck  the  hour 
of  ten. 

It  was  these  familiar  sights  and  sounds, 
more  than  any  conscious  effort  of  the  will, 
that, restored  to  Marston  Brent  the  self-pos 
session  he  so  seldom  lost;  and  to-night  more 
from  the  shattering  blow,  dealt  by  the  hand 
of  the  woman  he  loved,  at  all  the  plan  and 
hope  of  his  life,  than  from  any  weakness  of 
organization  or  undue  susceptibility  to  the 
marvellous. 

Standing  with  his  back  to  the  pool  for  a 
few  minutes,  and  forcing  himself  to  note  tlio 
objects  about  him,  the  young  man  found  both 
his  physical  and  mental  excitement  toned 
rapidly  down  to  a  condition  in  which  he  could 
once  more  exercise  will  and  purpose,  refissum- 
ing  as  it  were  the  reins  of  his  own  imagina 
tion,  and  checking  it  to  its  ordinary  sober 
pace. 

Then  he  turned,  and,  parting  with  his  arms 


the  drooping  limbs,  gazed  steadfastly  into  the 
pool,  satisfied  himself  that  the  drowned  body 
of  a  man  actually  lay  there,  and  that  he  could 
not  reach  it  from  the  bank,  and  then,  throw 
ing  off  his  upper  garments,  stepped  quietly 
into  the  black  waters,  which  curdled  and 
seethed  about  his  limbs  as  if  eager  to  dravr 
them  within  their  corrupting  grasp. 

Reaching  the  body,  the  young  man  stooped 
to  examine  the  face  more  closely,  but  failed  to 
recognize  it,  and  after  a  moment  of  hesitation 
placed  his  hands  beneath  the  arms  of  the 
corpse,  and,  wading  back  to  the  shore,  drew 
it  after  him.  His  utmost  strength,  however, 
no  more  than  sufficed  to  place  it  upon  the 
bank,  for  the  body  was  that  of  a  stalwart 
man,  and  the  heavy  clothes  were  saturated 
with  water. 

"  Lie  there,  then,"  muttered  Brent,  arrang 
ing  the  limbs  as  decently  as  he  could,  "  while 
I  go  for  help." 

He  stood  a  moment,  gazing  down  at  the 
face  of  the  dead  man,  in  whose  rigid  lines 
and  staring  eyeballs  was  to  be  read  nor  liking 
nor  disliking,  assent  or  refusal,  and  then 
turned  away. 

But  with  his  feet  upon  the  highway,  he 
paused,  turning  now  this  way,  now  that — 
this,  leading  toward  his  own  home,  two  miles 
away,  and  inhabited  only  by  a  stupid  serving- 
woman  ;  that,  by  which  he  should  reach  in  ten 
minutes  the  house  of  Deacon  Barstow,  the 
house  that  for  the  last  two  months  had  been 
to  him  more  than  home,  but  now 

"  I  must,  but  I  need  not  see  her,"  muttered 
he  at  last ;  and  striking  down  the  road  in  the 
same  direction  taken  by  the  boy  called  Paul, 
he  soon  stood  before  the  Old  Garrison,  and 
half  unconsciously  noted,  as  he  pushed  open 
the  gate,  the  picturesque  effect  of  the  weather- 
beaten  house,  with  its  drooping  woodbine- 
wreaths,  the  dewy  knoll  and  shining  brook, 
with  the  moonlight  lying  over  all  like  the 
silvery  veil  covering,  but  not  concealing,  the 
charms  of  an  Eastern  bride. 

'The  blaze  in  the  great  fireplace  had  died 
away  to  a  dull  glow,  and  the  arm-chaira  of 
the  old  man  and  his  wife  were  vacant.  A 
glancing  light  in  the  rooms  at  the  back  of  the 
house  showed  Aunt  Rachel  thriftily  preparing 
for  the  morrow,  and  convincing  herself  that 
the  house  was  secure  from  intrusion.  One 
figure  alone  remained  in  the  great  east-room, 
as  it  was  called — the  graceful  figure  of  a  girl 
crouching  upon  the  floor,  her  golden  head 


16 


laid  upon  the  beam  where,  a  hundred  years 
before,  the  gibbering  maniac  had  lain  to  moan 
her  hands  tightly  clasped 


away    his    life, 

across  her  eyes.  j 

A  piteous  sight,  and  a  cruel  one  to  Marston 
Brent,  who,  gazing,  felt  the  great  grief  at  his 
heart  rise  again  above  the  horror  of  the  last 
hour,  and  turn  him  sick  and  faint  with  its  ex 
tremity  of  anguish. 

Had  there  been  anger,  pique,  ^or  jealousy  in 
that  heart,  that  moment  must  have  crushed 
it  out,  and  Beatrice  Wansted  had  seen  her 
lover  at  her  feet ;  but  in  the  grand,  simple  na 
ture  of  the  man,  each  added  pang,  each  fresh 
proof  of  intensest  love  but  added  another 
line  to  the  barrier  between  him  and  the  wom 
an  whose  word  was  to  be  held  by  him  as 
truth  too  solemn  for  even  a  thought  of 
doubt. 

"  She  called  God  to  witness  that  she  would 
never  yield,  and  I  will  never  ask  her  ;  nor  if 
I  were  coward  enough  to  do  what  I  know 
wrong  to  please  her,  would  she  accept  the 
lying  sacrifice." 

So  groaned  he  between  clenched  teeth,  and 
turned  away. 

At  the  window  of  his  little  chamber  sat 
Paul  Freeman,  his  chin  resting  on  the  sill, 
his  eyes  vacantly  gazing  at  the  moon.  Not 
looking  at  her,  however,  but  using  the  lumi 
nous  surface  as  a  tablet  upon  which  fancy 
painted  pictures  of  the  future,  as  brilliant 
and  beautiful,  and,  alas !  as  far  away,  as  that 
fair  moon  herself. 

"  Paul !     Paul,  I  say !" 
The  boy   started,  and  looking  down,  an 
swered  quietly : 
"Yes,  sir.    Do  you  want  me?" 
"  Yes ;  come  down  as  quickly  as  you  can, 
and  make  no  noise." 

Paul  disappeared  from  the  window,  and  the 
next  minute  slid  back  the  bolt  of  the  kitchen- 
door  and  stepped  out  into  the  moonlight. 
"  Is  Miss  Rachel  still  up  ?"  asked  Brent. 
"  I  guess  so.     She's  the  last  one  mostly." 
"  Call  her  quietly." 
But  the  feline  ears  of  Aunt  Rachel  had  al 
ready  caught  the  slight  disturbance,  and  as 
Paul  turned  to  enter  the  door,  she  stood  upon 
the  threshold  inquiring : 
"  Is  that  you,  Marston  V 
"Yes,  Aunt  Rachel, and  I  want  some  help.' 
"Well,  I'm  ready." 

In  a  dozen  words,  Marston  Brent  told  his 
errand,  and  asked  hospitality  for  the  poor 


homeless  effigy  of  a  man  lying  stark  and  for 
lorn  upon  the  margin  of  Blackbriar  Pool. 

In  one  strong,  brief  sentence,  Miss  Rachel 
bid  him  to  bring  it  without  delay,  promising 
to  be  ready  when  it  should  arrive.  Then 
when  the  men  had  departed,  she  turned  into 
the  east-room.  Beatrice  rose,  with  a  coldly 
careless  mask  drawn  so  suddenly  over  the 
anguish  of  her  face  as  to  but  half  conceal  it. 
Her  aunt  glanced  keenly  at  her,  and  said 
bluntly : 

'  Come,  Trix,  you  must  rouse  up. 


There's 


a  man  drowned,  and  they  are  bringing  him 
here." 

"  A  man !" 

All  the  blood  in  the  girl's  veins  flew  to  her 
heart  with  a  cruel  pang,  and  then  back  to 
her  brain,  sending  her  reeling  against  the 
wall. 

Had  she  murdered  the  man  for  whose  pleas 
ure  she  would  have  died  in  torture?  Had 
she  indeed  "ruined  his  life"  here  and  here 
after?  But  she  only  gasped  again  : 

"  A  man !" 

Miss  Rachel's  keen  gray  eyes  fixed  them 
selves  steadily  upon  her  niece's  face. 

'  Yes,"  said  she  coldly.  "  And  the  man  is 
not  Marston  Brent.  He  is  no  such  fool  as 
that."  

CHAPTER  V. 
THE  FIRST  SUSPICION. 
"!T'S  Pel  eg  Brewster,"  said  Paul,  kneeling 
beside  the  corpse  and  peering  into  the  sodden 
face.     "  Peleg  Brewster,"  repeated  he,  rising 
and  looking  at  Brent,  who  was  staring  ab 
stractedly  into  the  pool. 

Yes.  I  never  knew  him,  though  I  re 
member  the  name,"  said  he,  rousing  himself 
witli  an  effort.  "  Well,  let  us  get  the  body 
upon  the  stretcher." 

With  laborious  effort,  the  ghastly  burden 
was  arranged,  and  the  litter  raised  between 
the  two  men.  Through  the  rustling  wood,  and 
along  the  quiet  road,  between  hedges  of  golden- 
rod  and  asters,  they  carried  it,  until  coming 
to  the  farm-house,  they  laid  it  upon  the  bed 
prepared  by  Rachel  Barstow's  active  care,  and 
left  it  in  the  hands  of  the  doctor  hastily  sum 
moned  by  Nancy,  Miss  Barstow's  maid. 

"  Quite  dead  hours  ago,  but  not  by  drown 
ing,"  mysteriously  pronounced  the  healing 
oracle,  after  a  prolonged  examination. 

"  What  then?"  asked  Miss  Rachel  bluntly. 

"  He  was  killed  by  a  shot  fired  from  behind, 


THE   SHADOW  OF   MOLOCH   MOUNTAIN 


17 


and  passing  through  the  heart,  and  out  at  the 
other  side.    It  is  a  pity  it  is  lost." 
"  Pity  what  is  lost  ?" 

"  The  bullet.  It  would  help  to  convict  the 
murderer,"  said  the  doctor  gravely. 

"  He  was  murdered  then  ?"  asked  Brent, 
aghast. 

"  Men  do  not  shoot  themselves  in  the  back," 
replied  the  physician  dryly. 

"  Who  could  have  done  it  ?  Had  the  man 
enemies  ?"  pursued3f  arston,  upon  whose  mind 
the  satirical  hint  at  his  own  obtuseness  made 
no  more  impression  thnn  a  drop  of  vinegar 
upon  the  coat  of  a  Newfoundland  dog. 

"  That  is  a  question  for  the  coroner  and  his 
jury.  You  will  have  to  attend,  Mr.  Brent." 

"  I  shall  n9t  be  here.  I  leave  early  in  the 
morning  for  the  West."  / 

"  I  am  afraid  you  will  have  to  postpone  your 
journey  for  a  day  at  least.  You  are  the  prin 
cipal  witness  in  this  matter,"  said  the  doctor 
gravely  ;  and  the  young  man  turned  away  with 
an  uncontrollable  gesture  of  impatience. 

The  doctor's  eyes  followed  him,  and  he 
asked :  "  Did  Mr.  Brent  know  Brewster  at  all  ? 
Had  he  ever  any  dealings  with  him  ?" 

"  No,  he  hadn't,  Dr.  Bliss.  There's  no  use 
in  thinking  about  that,"  said  Miss  Rachel, 
somewhat  sternly  ;  and  the  two  pairs  of  keen 
eyes  met  and  read  each  other.  At  last  the 
doctbr  said  : 

"  Then  I  won't  think  about  it,  Miss  Rachel. 
I  have  no  doubt  you  are  right." 

"  And  I  have  no  doubt  that  sugar  is  sweet, 
or  ice  is  cold,  or  the  sun  bright,  or  water  wet," 
rejoined  Miss  Rachel  with  asperity.  "  And 
after  you  have  proved  me  wrong  in  all  these, 
we'll  talk  about  the  other  matter." 

The  doctor  shook  his  head,  with  a  smile  at 
once  respectful  and  tolerant,  saying  the  while  : 

"Very  positive  and  very  warm,  as  usual. 
You  don't  change  as  the  years  go  on,  Miss 
Rachel." 

"  No,  I  don't  change,"  said  Rachel  Barstow 
briefly;  and  they  both  remembered  the  day — 
now  twenty  years  by-gone — when  she.first  had 
said  those  words  to  Wyman  Bliss. 

The  woman's  hard  face  softened,  and,  after 
a  little  while,  she  said,  toying  nervously  with 
her  apron  string : 

"  My  friends  must  take  me  as  I  am,  Wyman. 
Hard,  and  narrow,  and  obstinate,  and  cross- 
tempered.  I  cannot  change." 

"  But  you  won't  let  them  take  you,  as  they 
would  be  glad  to  do,  good  and  bad  together," 
2 


said  the  doctor  significantly  ;  and  Miss  Rachel, 
freezing  suddenly,  replied  : 

"  If  you  have  got  through  with  the  body, 
'Dr.  Bliss,  I  will  call  Nancy  to  help  lay  it  out." 
"  By  no  means,  Miss  Rachel,  by  no  means. 
It  must  not  be  touched  in  any  way  until  the 
coroner  has  seen  it.  We  will  lock  the  door  of 
this  room  if  you  please,  and  leave  every  thing 
just  as  it  is  until  the  morning.  '  I  will  take  all 
the  necessary  steps  to  ward  making  the  matter 
known  to  the  authorities,  if  you  like." 

"  Thank  you — I  wish  you  would.  Father  is 
old  now,  and  we  try  to  keep  him  as  quiet  as 
we  can,"  said  Miss  Barstow  wearily.  And  with 
a  few  words  of  farewell,  the  doctor  rode  away, 
saying  to  himself,  as  he  turned  into  the  road  : 

"  A  great  pity,  my  dear — a  great  pity  for  us 
both." 

Marston  Brent  meantime  was  striding  home 
across  the  moonlit  fields,  having  left  the  Old 
Garrison  without  seeing  Beatrice,  or  even 
hearing  her  name.  Beside  him  walked  Paul 
Freeman,  whom  an  uneasy  and  excited  mood 
had  debarred  from  sleep  or  rest. 

Nearly  a  mile  had  been  passed,  and  neither 
had  spoken,  when  Paul  suddenly  asked : 

"  Would  they  hang  a  woman  if  she  killed  a 
man,  Mr.  Brent  ?" 

"  Of  course  they  would  if  she  was  convicted," 
said  Brent. 

Another  silence — again  broken  by  Paul  : 

"Well,  it  was  the  best  thing  that  could 
have  happened  to  him." 

"  That's  weak  as  water,  Paul.  A  man 
should  never  want  to  die  because  things  go 
wrong,  and  he  is  miserable.  Rather  let  him 
live,  and  live  it  through,  and  live  it  down. 
Work,  my  boy — that's  the  salvation  of  a  sick 
heart." 

He  threw  back  his  shoulders,  opening  his 
broad  chest,  and  looking  up  to  the  sky  as  he 
spoke.  Already  the  strong  vitality  of  his 
nature  was  gathering  to  assuage  the  wound 
which  at  first  had  seemed  so  hopeless  of  cure. 

Paul  stared  at  him  a  moment,  then  said : 
"  Peleg  Brewster  had  work  enough  to  do  ;  but 
that  didn't  hinder  this." 

"  No,"  replied  Brent  vaguely  ;  and  then  : 
"  You  knew  him  it  seems  ?" 

"  He  brought  me  up.  His  frrst  wife  was 
like  a  mother  to  me.  She  was  a  real  good 
woman,"  blurted  the  boy. 

"  And  why  did  you  say  that  death  was  the 
best  thing  that  could  have  happened  to  him?" 

"  He  was  so  unhappy  at  home.    You  see, 


18 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


sir,  his  wife  died,  and  in  a  little  while  he  mar 
ried  again,  and  the  second  woman  wasjust  as 
far  below  the  mark  as  the  other  one  was  above. 
She  led  him  a  dog's  life,  and,  what  was  worst, 
set  his  child  and  him  against  each  other,  till  it 
seemed  as  if  the  house  couldn't  hold  the  three 
of  them.  Then  Joe  came  to  live  with  them, 
and  I  quit." 

"  Who  was  Joe  ?" 

"  Joe  Brewster,  brother  to  Peleg,  and  the 
same  for  a  man  that  Semanthy  was  for  a 
woman — only  he  was  a  coward,  and  she 
woiildn't  have  been  scared  by  Old  Nick  and 
all  his  host." 

"  And  what  happened  then  ?" 

"  Why,  it  happened  that,  from  quarrelling, 
they  come  to  fighting ;  and  one  day,  Peleg 
struck  Semanthy  in  the  face,  and  sent  her  up 
against  the  wall.  Lord,  sir !  Did  you  ever 
see  a  cat  that  mad  that  she'd  fly  at  the  big- 
ges*  dog  that  ever  was,  and  beat  him  too  1 
Then  you've  seen  Semanthy  Brewster  as  she 
leaned  up  against  the  wall  and  looked  at 
Peleg  and  smiled.  Yes,  sir,  smiled ;  and  I 
hope  I'll  never  see  another  smile  like  that." 

"  When  did  this  happen  ?"  asked  Brent,  after 
a  little  while. 

"  About  a  year  ago — just  before  I  left  there." 

"And  how  have  they  gone  on  since?" 

"  From  bad  to  worse.  I've  been  once  in  a 
•while  to  see  Ruth." 

"  Who  is  that  ?" 

"  The  child  of  the  first  wife,  and,  to  be  sure, 
the  only  child,  for  Semanthy  never  had  any. 
She's  thirteen  now." 

"  And  what  sort  of  girl  ?" 

"  It  would  be  hard  paying,  sir.  Five  years 
ago,  when  her  mother  died,  there  wasn't  a  nicer 
little  girl  nor  a  likelier  anywhere  round.  She 
was  always  shy  and  quiet  to  strangers,  but 
with  her  mother  she'd  come  out  and  show  for 
what  she  was.  Semanthy  set  out  to  ruin  her, 
and  she's  done  it." 

"  How,  and  why  ?" 

"  Why,  because  Peleg  was  fond  of  her,  and 
Semanthy  meant  to  rule  the  roast  herself ;  and 
how,  it  would  be  hard  to  tell  unless  you  seen 
it.  She  made  Ruth  feel  that  her  father  wasn't 
satisfied  with  her,  and  didn't  think  her  equal 
to  other  folks,  and  she  made  her  think  he 
talked  against  her  mother — which  I  don't  be 
lieve  he  ever  did,  for  I  know  how  he  set  by 
her  ;  and  then  she  made  Peleg  think  Ruth  was 
sulky  and  lazy,  and  told  lies,  and  spoke  disre 
spectful  of  him  behind  his  back.  And  so  she 


kept  at  work,  now  this  side,  and  now  that,  till 
she'd  got  a  good  wide  wedge  drove  in  between 
them,  as  ought  to  be  Jike  the  bark  and  the 
wood,  and  then  there  was  no  healing  the 
wound.  I  haven't  seen  any  of  them  for  a 
month  or  more ;  but  Miss  Rachel  was  telling 
me  that  Ruth  was  going  out  to  service,  she 
heard.  I  don't  know  if  she's  gone,  but  I  hope 
so." 

"  Poor  child  !     How  old  did  you  say  ?" 

"  Thirteen.  Just  three  years  younger  than 
me,"  said  Paul ;  and  then  the  two  walked  on 
in  silence  until  they  came  upon  the  little  farm 
house  bequeathed  to  Marston  Brent  by  his 
father,  lately  dead. 

Here  they  paused,  and  the  elder  said  :  "  I 
shall  not  get  away  to-morrow,  Paul ;  and  if  you 
can  finish  your  business  here,  we  may  leave 
together  the  next  morning.  I  shall  drive  from 
this  house  to  Bloom,  and  you  can  go  with  me 
if  you  choose." 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  should  like  to.  I'll  be  on  hand," 
said  Paul,  but  with  so  marked  a  change  from 
the  joyous  alacrity  he  had  shown  in  first 
speaking  of  the  matter,  that  Brent  turned  to 
look  at  him  curiously  by  the  light  of  the  set 
ting  moon. 

"  Not  falling  back  already,  are  you,  boy  ?" 

"  No,  sir  ;  not  a  mite  of  it.  I  a'n't  given  to 
backing  down.  But  I  was  thinking  of  Ruth 
Brewster— poor  little  Ruthie.  I  wish  I  knew 
what  she'll  do." 

And  bidding  good-night,  or  rather  good- 
morning,  the  boy  thrust  his  hands  deep  in  his 
pockets  and  strode  thoughtfully  away. 


CHAPTER  VI. 
THE  CORONER'S  VERDICT. 

SEMA.NTHA  BREWSTER,  wife  of  the  de 
ceased,  being  duly  summoned  and  sworn,  sud 
denly  scandalized  all  judicial  propriety  by  ex 
claiming,  without  waiting  to  be  questioned  : 

"  It  was  Ruth  did  it !" 

"  What !"  exclaimed  the  coroner,  not  more 
startled  at  the  idea  than  at  the  mode  of  con 
veying  it. 

"It  was  Ruth  that  killed  him,"  repeated 
Semantha  doggedly  ;  and  before  the  horrified 
silence  that  fell  upon  the  company  could  be 
broken  by  question  or  exclamation,  she  went 
on  : 

"  There  was  bad  blood  between  them.  She 
was  jealous  of  me  because  I  was  in  her 
mother's  shoes,  and  he  set  by  me,  same  as  a 
man  had  ought  to  by  his  wife,  and  so  there 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


19 


was  trouble  between  them.  Finally,  the 
night  before  it  happened,  he  got  real  mad  at 
her,  and  said  he'd  take  her  off  to  live  with  a 
woman  over  to  Milvor  that  he'd  spoke  to 
about  taking  her,  and  she  up  and  declared 
she  wouldn't  go.  They  had  an  awful  time 
about  it,  and  I  heard  Ruth  stamping  about 
her  room  pretty  much  all  night.  But  yester 
day  morning  he  tackled  up,  and  made  me 
pack  all  her  things  in  a  trunk,  and  took  her 
off  with  him.  He  had  his  rifle  in  the  back  of 
the  wagon,  going  to  get  it  fixed  over  to  Mil 
vor,  and  he  made  her  sit  over  there  on  her 
trunk,  because  he  was  so  provoked  with  her 
he  couldn't  bear  to  have  heron  the  seat  along 
side  of  him.  So  then,  I  expect,  when  they  got 
into  the  woods,  she  up  and  shot  him." 

"  Could  she  use  a  rifle  ?"  asked  the  coroner 
still  too  much  astonished  to  notice  the  infor 
mality  of  these  proceedings. 

"  I  guess  you'd  think  so  if  you'd  seen  her, 
as  I  have,  shooting  at  a  mark  down  in  the 
meadow,  along  with  him,  when  they  was  good 
together.  She'd  hit  it  as  well  as  any  man, 
almost,"  said  Semantha  coolly. 

"  Well — but — where  is  the  child  now  ?' 
stammered  the  coroni-r. 

"  There,  again,"  rejoined  Semantha,  tri 
umphantly  ;  "  she's  run  off;  and  what  would 
she  do  that  for  if  she  didn't  feel  she'd  done 
what  she  hadn't  ought  to  f 

"  Now,  Mrs.  Brewster,  this  isn't  the  way  to 
give  evidence.  You  are  to  begin  at  the  be 
ginning,  and  tell  all  that  you  know  of  your 
husband's  leaving  home,  and  what  followed 
relating  to  it ;  but  do  not  give  any  opinions  or 
arguments,  or  accuse  any  body  of  any  thing. 
Go  on,  if  you  please." 

And  the  coroner,  feeling  that  he  had  vindi 
cated  the  judicial  dignity,  and  restored  things 
to  their  true  position,  leaned  back  in  his  chair, 
and  listened  complacently. 

Mrs.  Brewster,  thus  adjured,  began  with  her 
story,  and  repeated  it  substantially  as  before, 
contriving,  with  small  feminine  tact,  to  sug 
gest  the  suspicions  of  Ruth,  no  longer  openly 
expressed. 

When  she  had  finished,  Joachim  Brewster, 
brother  of  the  deceased,  was  summoned,  and 
gave  his  evidence  so  closely,  to  the  same 
effect  as  that  of  Semantha,  that  the  coroner 
shrewdly  inquired,  as  he  finished : 
.  "  Did  you  and  Mrs.  Brewster  talk  over  to 
gether  what  you'd  say  to-day  ?" 

"  No,  we  didn't.    It's  because  both  stories 


are  true  that  they  fay  in  so  well  together," 
said  Joachim,  a  little  anxiously. 

"  Was  any  body  else  in  or  about  the  house 
that  morning  ?"  pursued  the  coroner. 

"  No,  we  don't  keep  any  help.  Peleg  and 
me  carried  on  the  farm,  and  Semanthy  and 
Ruth  did  the  work  in  the  house.  There  was 
nobody  else  about." 

"  Very  well ;  you  can  sit  down  now.  Call 
Marston  Brent." 

And  Marston  Brent,  being  summoned,  de 
posed  to  finding  the  dead  body  of  Peleg 
Brewster  in  the  water  called  Blackbriar  Pool, 
and  bringing  it  up  the  previous  evening  to 
the  house  of  Deacon  Barstow,  where  it  now 
lay.  He  also  spoke  of  searching  for  and 
finding  traces  the  next  morning  of  the  heavy 
wagon  and  span  of  horses  driven  by  the  de 
ceased,  and  following  them  down  the  road  to 
a  sudden  turn,  where  the  wagon  lay  broken, 
with  one  horse  still  attached,  and  the  other 
lying  dead  not  far  off.  The  rifle  and  the  lit 
tle  girl's  trunk  had  been  thrown  out  by  the 
upsetting  of  the  wagon,  and  lay  in  the  road 
beside  it.  The  rifle  had  been  discharged,  and 
he  had  found  no  trace  of  the  child.  So  ended 
this  important  evidence,  and  at  its  close  the 
coroner  solemnly  asked : 

"  What  is  your  own  opinion,  Mr.  Brent, 
formed  upon  these  circumstances,  of  the  man 
ner  in  which  the  deceased  came  to  his  death  ?'' 

"  My  opinion  is,  sir,  that  the  shot  which 
killed  him  was  fired  from  behind,  while  the 
wagon  was  passing  through  the  thick  clump 
of  trees  shading  Blackbriar  Pool ;  that  the  ex 
plosion  frightened  the  horses,  who  swerved  so 
much  as  to  throw  Brewster  from  the  wagon 
into  the  water  where  I  found  him,  and  that 
then  they  continued  down  the  road  as  far  as 
the  turn,  where  they  upset." 

"  And  do  you  think  it  possible  that  a  girl  of 
thirteen  could  have  fired  the  shot  whlc.i 
killed  this  man?"  continued  the  coroner,  re 
lying  more  than  he  would  have  confessed 
upon  the  opinions  of  the  man  before  him. 

"  Certainly,  it  is  'possible,"  replied  Marston 
Brent  reluctantly. 

"  And  if  the  wagon  tipped  enough  to  throw 
out  her  father's  body,  it  is  not  likely  the  child 
would  have  remained  in  it  ?" 

"  No,  especially  sitting  upon  a  trunk  in  the 
back  of  the  wagon." 

'  And  if  she  had  been  thrown  into  the 
300!  or  upon  its  banks,  you  would  have  found 
icr  or  her  body  ?" 


20 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


"Certainly.      I    waded    over    nearly    the 
•whole  pool  when  I  took  the  body  of  the  de 
ceased  from  it,  and  I  have  been  all  about 
there  this  morning." 
"  Alone  ?" 

"  No  ;  Paul  Freeman  was  with  me." 
"  That  will  do,  Mr.  Brent.     Summon  Paul 
Freeman." 

But  Paul  Freeman,  however  summoned, 
was  not  to  be  found,  and  the  latest  intelli 
gence  to  be  gathered  concerning  him  was  Miss 
Rachel  Barstow's  statement,  that  about  an  hour 
before  the  inquest  she  had  seen  him  going  up 
stairs  to  his  own  bedroom.  He  was  not  there 
now,  however,  nor  were  any  of  his  belongings, 
from  which  Miss  Rachel  inferred  that  he  had 
gone  to  carry  them  to  Mr.  Brent's  house,  whence 
he  was  to  start  for  the  West  early  the  next 
morning. 

A  messenger  was  immediately  dispatched  in 
search  of  the  truant  witness,  while  the  exam 
ination  of  those  present  went  on  ;  but  in  a 
brief  half  hour  he  returned  with  the  report 
that  Paul  Freeman  had  not  been  seen  at  Mr. 
Brent's  house,  or  at  any  other  upon  the  road 
there,  and  the  inquest  was  perforce  brought 
to  a  close  without  his  testimony,  which,  in 
deed,  was  only  expected  to  corroborate  that  of 
Marston  Brent. 

The  consultation  of  the  jury  was  long  and 
animated — a  natural  incredulity  and  horror 
in  every  mind  arguing  against  the  verdict 
plainly  suggested  by  the  evidence.  Slowly 
and  reluctantly,  however,  man  by  man  yielded 
his  wishes  to  his  convictions,  and  when  at  last 
the  little  audience  was  readmitted,  it  was  to 
hear  that,  in  the  opinion  of  this  jury,  "  the 
deceased  came  to  his  death  by  a  shot  fired 
from  his  own  rifle  by  Ruth  Brewster,  his 
daughter,"  and  a  warrant  for  the  apprehen 
sion  of  the  said  Ruth  was  obtained  upon  the 
spot,  and  placed  in  the  hands  of  the  County 
Sheriff,  then  present. 

"  It's  no  more  that  child  did  it  than  I !"  ex 
claimed  Aunt  Rachel,  bringing  one  fist  down 
into  the  palm  of  the  other  hand.  "  I  say  it, 
and  I'll  stick  to  it." 

"  I  wish  I  could  say  so  too  ;  but  I've  heard 
too  much  of  the  way  she  and  Pel  eg  would 


"  I  don't  believe  any  such  story.  I  knew 
Mary  Brewster  as  well  as  I  know  my  own 
sister ;  and  I'm  not  going  to  believe  her  child 
could  be  brought  to  all  that  in  two  years' 
time,  even  by  the  worst  of  management,"  re 
joined  Aunt  Rachel  significantly,  and  with  no 
answer  except  an  oblique  gleam  from  her 
beryl-tinted  eyes,  Semantha  left  the  house. 


CHAPTER  VH. 
CRYSTALS. 

THK  shadow  of  Moloch  lay  over  all  his 
western  valley,  and  only  his  topmost  pines 
caught  the  red  light  of  the  summer  dawn, 
when  Marston  Brent,  alone  and  sorrowful, 
came  to  bid  good-by  to  the  Old  Garrison 
House  and  its  sleeping  inmates.  Avoiding 
the  creaking  gate,  he  climbed  the  little  paling, 
and  stole  softly  through  the  garden-walks, 
smiling  sadly  as  he  brushed  by  the  bachelor's- 
buttons,  with  whose  blossoms  Beatrice  had 
sometimes  merrily  decked  his  coat,  and  bitterly 
as  he  stood  beside  the  plot  of  pansies  whose 
bed  he  had  himself  fashioned  into  the  shape 
of  a  great  heart,  and  planted  in  its  centre  his 
own  and  her  initials. 

"  Heart's-ease  !"  murmured  he.  "  Yes,  for 
her  and  me  !"  And  with  the  smile  which  such 
men  use  instead  of  tears,  he  gathered  some  of 
the  flowers  and  held  them  a  moment  to  his 
lips,  then  flung  them  down. 

"  Heart's-ease  is  sweet,  but  it  does  not  last," 
said  Marston  Brent ;  and  so  bid  good-by  to 
the  old  garden  where  they  two  had  lingered 
through  so  many  blissful  hours. 

Then  he  passed  on  through  the  grove  and 
the  meadow  to  the  brook-side,  where  he  had 
planted  the  weeping  willow,  and  fashioned  a 
seat  beneath  it — a  seat  just  wide  enough  for 
two,  as  he  said  that  day,  and  now  he  sat  down 
upon  it  alone — alone  forever,  as  he  told  himself 
in  bitter  iteration ;  and  plucking  the  long 
branches  that  swept  his  face,  he  bound  them 
mockingly  about  his  arm,  then  flung  them  in 
dignantly  aside,  and  started  to  his  feet. 

"  No  willow  for  me  !"  said  he  aloud.  "  Or 
if  I  must  have  it,  I'll  make  a  staff1  of  it." 

And  taking  out  his  knife,  he  cut  a  stout 
shoot  from  one  of  the  principal  branches  of 


go  on  together.     They  were  run  in  the  same   the  tree,  and  trimmed  it  to  a  walking-stick, 
mould,   and  when  their  temper  was  up,   1 1  careful  that  all  the  twigs  and  leaves  he  cut 


wouldn't  have  stood  in  the  way  not  for  a  good 
deal.  I  had  a  hard  time  of  it  with  that  child, 
the  dear  knows,"  said  Semantha,  with  the 
corner  of  her  shawl  to  her  eyes. 


away  should  fall  into  the  stream,  instead  of 
littering  the  grass  about  the  seat.  The  day 
before,  under  the  same  impulse,  he  had 
plucked  away  the  weeds  from  the  grave  where 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


his  mother  lay  ten  years  buried  ;  but  this  sor 
row  was  harder  to  bear  than  that. 

As  he  turned  from  the  brook-side,  he  found 
Beatrice  close  behind  him,  her  eyes  dim,  her 
face  wan,  her  drooping  figure  full  of  pathos 
and  of  appeal. 

He  took  her  hands  in  his,  and  looked  at  her 
long  and  sorrowfully. 

"It  is  hard  for  you,  too,  poor  darling," 
said  he. 


At  the  Brook-side. 

And  at  the  loving  word,  her  tears  burst  the 
bonds  she  had  laid  upon  them,  and  she  sank 
upon  the  little  seat,  sobbing  without  restraint. 

He  looked  at  her  tenderly,  pitifully,  but  did 
not  offer  to  approach  her,  did  not  dream  of 
returning  upon  the  path  wherein  he  had  set 
his  feet. 

Presently  she  looked  up. 

"  I  knew  you  were  here,  Marston.  I  saw 
you  in  the  garden.  Look  !" 

And  she  held  up  the  pansies  he  had  kissed 
and  thrown  away. 

"  You  will  keep  them,  Beatrice  ?" 

"  Always.  But,  0  Marston !  must  you,  will 
you  ?" 

"  What,  Beatrice  ?" 

"  Must  you  go  ?" 

"  You  know  I  must." 


"  Is  it  quite,  quite  impossible  for  you  to 
yield  to  my  wishes  ?" 

A  slight  frown  changed  the  expression  of 
patient  sadness  upon  his  face. 

"  I  am  sorry  you  asked  me  that,  Beatrice. 
Is  my  word  of  so  little  account  with  you  ?" 

"  And  yet  you  suffer !"  murmured  Beatrice. 

"  More  than  you  can  know,  or  I  can  tell." 

"  But  that  is  not  firmness,  that  is " 

"What?" 

"  Obstinacy,  fanaticism.  You  sacrifice  your 
self  and — yes,  and  me,  rather  than  give  up  an 
idea." 

"  Beatrice,  do  you  remember,  in  the  chemi 
cal  experiments  that  amused  us  last  winter, 
watching  the  crystals  form?  Could  those 
crystals  have  been  persuaded  to  change  them 
selves  back  into  their  component  parts  ?  And 
just  so,  as  it  seems  to  me,  a  conviction  should 
form  itself  in  a  man's  mind,  and  there  remain 
in  its  integrity  through  time  and  circum 
stances,  and  the  tears  of  the  woman  that  he 
loves,  and  the  passion  of  his  own  heart,  beat 
against  it  without  ceasing.  It  may  be  fanati 
cism,  dear,  it  may  be  obstinacy,  but  it  is  I  as 
God  made  me,  and  as  I  shall  live  and  die." 

"  Well,  then,"  cried  the  woman,  driven  to 
her  last  extremity,  and  throwing  to  the  winds 
all  considerations  but  the  one  standing  closest 
to  her  heart.  "  Well,  then,  if  you  will  not 
yield,  Marston  Brent,  I  will.  I  am  not  made 
of  these  cold,  hard  crystals,  but  of  warm  flesh 
and  blood,  thank  God !  I  give  up  my  opposi 
tion  to  the  life  you  propose.  I  consent  that 
you  should  go  to  Wahtahree,  and  I  will  fol 
low  " 

"  Stop,  Beatrice.  Do  not  finish  that  sentence, 

do  not  make  that  offer,  for  I O  Beatrice  ! 

how  can  I  accept  it  ?"  * 

The  color  slowly  left  her  face,  the  light 
faded  from  her  eyes,  and  she  stood  staring  at 
him,  her  lips  parted  for  that  next  word  whose 
utterance  he  had  forbidden. 

Brent  went  on,  no  less  moved  than  she,  yet 
very  firm : 

"  How  can  I  accept  it,  Beatrice,  when  twelve 
hours  ago  you  deliberately  resolved  and 
vowed,  and  called  God  to  witness  the  oath, 
that  you  would  never  consent  to  the  entreaty 
I  urged  upon  you,  would  never  follow  me  to 
Wahtahree  as  my  wife,  would  never  yield  to 
the  plan  you  had  formed  for  me  to  that  I  had 
formed  for  myself?  Dear  love,  if  I  should 
allow  you  to  perjure  yourself  to-day,  you 
would  despise  yourself  and  me  to-morrow ;  and 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


whatever  else  befalls,  I  would  save  you  from 
the  cureless  pang  of  self-contempt.  Words 
may  be  but  air,  but  honor  turns  them  to  claims 
that  may  not  be  broken.  Say  that  I  am  right, 
Beatrice,  for,  O  child !  my  burden  is  very  hard 
to  bear." 

And  snatching  at  her  hands,  he  held  them 
close,  turning  upon  her  the  while  a  face  of 
such  white  agony  as  might  look  up  from  the 
raclfr  whose  utmost  power  may  extort  a  groan, 
but  no  recantation. 

Her  eyes  met  his,  steadily  enough  now,  and 
coldly  too. 

"  Thank  you,  Marston  Brent,"  said  she  ; 
"  you  have  saved  me  from  a  great  folly  and  a 
great  mortification.  Good-by." 

"  Good-by  like  this,  Beatrice,  after  all  that 
has  come  and  gone  between  us  two !" 

"  Good-by,"  repeated  she  ;  and  drawing  her 
hands  from  his  icy  grasp,  she  walked  steadily 
up  the  path  and  disappeared  in  the  wood,  nor 
once  turned  to  look  behind  her. 

Brent  watched  until  the  last  nutter  of  her 
dress  was  lost  among  the  leaves,  then  cast 
one  slow,  loving  glance  on  all  about  him, 
reverently  raised  his  hat,  murmuring : 

"  God  bless  and  guard  rny  darling,  and  all 
about  her !" 

And  taking  the  willow  staff  from  the  place 
where  it  had  fallen,  went  his  way. 


CHAPTER  Vm. 
EXODUS. 

AEKIVED  at  his  own  house,  Brent  found  his 
housekeeper  impatiently  awaiting  him.  She 
was  an  old  woman,  and  had  lived  in  the  family 
so  many  years  as  to  have  acquired  many  priv 
ileges. 

"  ^"7.  where  have  you  been,  Mr.  Brent  ?" 
began  she  as  Marston  entered  the  housx 
"  Here  I've  had  breakfast  ready  this  hour  past, 
and  that  boy's  been  hanging  round  asking 
after  you  every  five  minutes." 

"  Paul  Freeman  ?" 

"Yes.  Have  you  forgot  all  about  telling 
me  to  fix  him  up  a  bed  last  night,  and  get 
breakfast  for  him  this  morning?  How  do 
they  do  up  to  Barstow's  ?" 

"  If  breakfast  is  ready,  we  will  have  it,  Zil- 
pah,  and  the  sooner,  the  better.     I  did  not  see 
you  last  night,  or  I  should  have  told  you  that 
I  sold  the  place  yesterday  to  a  man  at  Mil- 
vorhaven,  who  will  be  over  to-day,  I  suppose, ! 
to  take  possession.     The  furniture  and  every  i 
thing  in  the  house  I  give  to  you,  to  do  as  you  | 


please  with.  You  can  either  have'an  auction 
and  sell  it  all  off,  or  carry  it  to  your  brother's." 

"  Well,  now,  Marston,  I  declare  if  that  a'n't 
real  generous !  That's  your  mother  all  over 
again.  Oh  !  she  was  the  givingest  creatur'  that 
ever  walked,  and  you're  as  like  her  as  two 
peas.  Not  but  what  your  father  was  an 
obleeging  man  too,  but  his  folks  was  always  a 
little  near — dreadful  fore-handed  and  nice-feel 
ing,  but  a  leetle  close.  Your  mother  was  a 
Winship,  and  they  was  different.  But  do  tell, 
Marston,  do  you  mean  all  the  stuff,  every  mite 
of  it,  a  free  gift  right  out  ?" 

"  A  free  gift,  Zilpah,  and  much  good  may  it 
do  you,"  said  Marston,  smiling  sadly  at  the 
old  creature's  incredulity  ;  and  then  he  turned 
to  greet  Paul  as  he  entered  the  house,  and 
the  three  sat  down  to  break  their  bread 
together  in  patriarchal  simplicity. 

"  You  don't  eat,  Marston.  I  made  them  pan 
cakes  on  purpose  for  you — you  was  always  so 
fond  of  them.  Don't  you  rec'lect  how  you  used 
to  come  sly  ing  round,  when  you  was  a  boy,  go 
ing  out  to  work  with  your  father  in  the  field, 
and  tease  me  to  have  pancakes  for  supper  ?" 

"And  you  always  humored  me,  Zilpah," 
said  Marston,  taking  one  of  the  pancakes 
upon  his  plate. 

"  Always  when  I  could,  and  so  did  your 
mother — and  your  father  too,  for  that  matter. 
Oh!  we  was  a  happy  and  a  u-nited  family  in 
them  days ;  and  now  the  heads  of  it  lays  in 
the  grave,  and  the  strength  of  it  is  going 
away  forever  ;  and  nobody  but  me,  the  poorest 
and  the  weakest  of  all,  is  left,  and  that  won't  be 
for  long.  When  you  come  back  for  your  wife, 
Marston,  there  won't  be  no  old  woman  to 
wish  you  joy,  nor  to  go  along  to  your  new 
home  and  tend  your  babies.  O  dear !  O  dear  I 
I  wish't  I  was  dead  too  along  of  her." 

And  Zilpah,  throwing  her  apron  over  her 
head,  rocked  to  and  fro,  in  the  abandonment 
of  age  and  grief. 

Marston  rose  in  much  emotion. 

"  Zilpah,  do  you  want  to  go  with  me  ?"  asked 
he  suddenly.  "  And  can  you  go  now — imme 
diately  ?  My  home  will  be  no  better  than  a 
hut,  and  we  may  suffer  many  hardships  ;  but 
if  you  will  go,  you  shall,  for  you  are  the  only 
creature  alive  who  will  mourn  my  absence." 

"Do  you  mean  that,  Marston  Brent?'' 
asked  Zilpah,  raising  her  poor  old  tear-stained 
face  with  the  quick  appreciation  of  a  love- 
quarrel  inherent  in  her  sex. 

"  I  mean  it,  Zilpah." 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


"Then  I'll  go  as  quick  as  say  it;  for  your 
mother  was  like  a  sister  to  me  when  1  was  in 
trouble,  and  she  shan't  have  it  to  say  in 
Heaven  that  I  turned  my  back  on  her  boy 
•when  other  folks  treated  him  bad.  I'll  go 
with  you — but  how  about  the  stuff?" 

"  We  will  stop  at  your  brother's,  on  our 
way  to  Bloom,  aiid  ask  iiiui  to  come  and  move 
every  thing  over  to  his  house.  Then  you  can 
write  directions  about  selling  what  you  do 
not  care  to  keep.  I  suppose  you  know  pretty 
well  what  is  in  the  house." 

"  Every  stick,  and  thread,  and  pin,  and 
scrap,"  said  Zilpah  complacently  ;  and  starting 
from  her  chair  with  new  alacrity,  she  began 
setting  the  house  in  order,  and  preparing  her 
self  for  departure.  Such  good  speed  did  she 
make,  assisted  by  Paul,  whose  good  fairy 
had  endowed  him  with  the  gift  of  "  handiness." 
so  much  more  valuable  than  the  purse  of 
Fortunatus,  that  in  another  hour  she  locked 
the  door  of  the  house  behind  her,  thrust  the 
key  into  its  time-honored  hiding-place  be 
neath  the  steps  of  the  door,  and  climbed  to 
her  seat  in  the  wagon  beside  Brent,  who 
watched  her  proceedings  with  a  vacant  eye. 

Paul  disposed  himself  behind,  among  the 
various  packages  with  which  Zilpah  had  en 
cumbered  the  march,  and  sat  biting  his  nails, 
and  casting  uneasy  glances  at  Brent,  as  if 
anxious  to  speak  to  him,  yet  not  quite  seeing 
his  opportunity. 

When,  however,  Zilpah,  having  reached  her 
brother's  house,  insisted  upon  dismounting 
and  holding  a  private  interview  with  her 
sister-in-law  upon  the  subject  of  her  household 
stuff,  Paul  stepped  across  the  seat  and  said, 
not  without  embarrassment : 

"  I  was  wanting  to  speak  with  you,  Mr. 
Brent." 

"  Well,  Paul,  what  is  it  ?" 

"  Have  you  any  objection  to  my  taking  my 
little  brother  along  with  us,  sir?  I  will  pay 
his  car-fare,  and  all  the  costs  there  will  be  to 
it ;  and  when  we  get  there  he  can  do  chores 
round  the  house  enough  to  pay  his  board.  He 
won't  charge  any  thing  of  course,  and  I  don't 
think  he'll  be  any  trouble." 

"  But  where  is  your  brother  now,  and  why 
did  not  you  speak  of  this  before?"  asked 
Marston,  in  some  surprise,  both  at  the  matter 
and  the  manner  of  his  new  retainer's  speech. 

"He's  at  Bloom,  sir.  I  told  him  to  meet 
us  at  the  depot,  and  I  didn't  have  a  chance  to 
speak  before." 


"  I  never  knew  you  had  a  brother,  Paul. 
Where  has  he  lived  all  this  time  V  ' 

"  With  a  farmer's  lamily,  sir.  I  never  said 
much  about  him,"  said  Paul,  a  little  uneasily. 

"  Well,  i  don't  know  as  I  object,  if  you 
choose  to  take  charge  of  him  and  his  expenses. 
How  old  a  boy  is  he  ?" 

"  About  a  dozen  years  old,  sir." 

"  Strong  and  active  ?" 

"  Well,  not  very,  sir,  but  he  can  do  light 
jobs  round  the  house.  He  isn't  very  rugged, 
to  be  sure." 

"  Well,  he  may  come  along,  I  shall  have 
quite  a  family  by  the  time  I  reach  Wahtahree." 

And  Marston  smiled  a  little  cynically  as  he 
fancied  Beatrice  presiding  over  such  a  family. 

Zilpah,  reluctantly  torn  from  her  parting 
gossip,  was  at  last  reestablished  in  the  wagon, 
and  Marston,  hurrying  his  patient  horse  a  little, 
drove  into  Bloom,  and  leaving  his  charge  at 
the  station,went  to  transact  a  little  last  business 
at  the  office  of  his  agent.  When  he  returned, 
he  found  an  addition  to  the  party  in  the  person 
of  a  small,  delicate  lad,  whose  pale  face,  down 
cast  eyes,  and  slender  hands  promised  little  in 
the  way  of  profitable  labor,  but  at  the  same 
time  appealed  not  unsuccessfully  to  Brent's 
softened  feelings. 

"  You  don't  look  very  well,  my  boy,"  said 
he,  kindly  patting  him  upon  the  shoulder. 
"  What  is  your  name  ?" 

"  His  name  is  Willy,  sir,  and  he  is  feeling 
a  little  poorly  just  now,  but  he'll  be  better 
pretty  soon.  I  guess  we'll  go  out  and  see  if 
the  cars  are  coming,  sir." 

"  Very  well ;  I  will  take  tickets  for  the  whole 
party,  and  we  will  settle  some  other  time," 
said  Marston,  noticing  Paul's  haste  and  con 
fusion  with  some  surprise,  but  attributing  them 
to  a  country  boy's  nervousness  in  commencing 
his  first  journey. 

"  Marston — Mr.  Brent,  I  should  say,"  inter-* 
posed  Zilpah  at  this  moment.  "  Be  we  going 
to  take  that  other  boy  along  too  ?" 

"  Yes.  He  is  Paul's  brother,  and  Paul  is 
anxious  to  keep  him  under  his  own  eye,"  said 
Marston  absently. 

"  Lor !  A  boy  like  that  keeping  any  one 
under  his  own  eye,"  sniffed  Zilpah  contemptu 
ously.  "  I  reckon  I'll  keep  a  couple  of  eyes 
on  both  of  'em,  till  I  see  what  they  be,  any 
way." 

Marston  made  no  reply  except  a  smile  as 
he  moved  away,  and  a  few  minutes  later  the 
train  arrived,  swept  up  the  waiting  passen- 


24 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


gers,  and  bore  them  away  to  new  scenes  and 
strange  experiences. 

CHAPTER  IX. 
A  NEW  BEGINNING. 

"  Six  of  damsons,  six  of  green-gages,  and 
a  dozen  rareripes— and,  to  my  mind,  there's 
no  peack  like  a  rarerape  tor  a  preserve. 


'•'•Mowers  knee-deep  in  greenest  grass." 

There,  that  will  do  for  to-day,"  said  Aunt  Ra 
chel  complacently,  tying  down  the  cork  of  her 
last  bottle  of  rareripes,  for  these  were  not  the 
days  or  the  meridian  of  "  air-tight  cans  ;"  and 
had  such  innovations  been  suggested  to  Aunt 
Rachel  she  would  probably  have  snubbed 
them  as  "  new-fangled  "  and  "  too  notional" 
for  her. 

"  Now,  Nancy,"  continued  she,  "  I  am  going 
round  to  open  the  slide  into  the  best  china- 
closet,  and  you  can  pass  the  bottles  in.  Mind 
you  don't  drop  them." 

"  I  won't  drop  'em.  They  do  look  proper 
nice  to  be  sure,  and  I  guess  the  doctor'll  think 
more  than  ever  of  our  plums  when  he  eats 
'em  this  way,"  replied  Nancy,  rubbing  her 
hands  dry  upon  her  tow  apron,  and  eyeing  the 
jars  of  sweetmeats  appreciatively. 

"  Lor !  who  cares  what  the  doctor  thinks  ?" 


demanded  Miss  Rachel,  bustling  out  of  the 
room,  and  through  the  long  entry  whose  opeii 
door  framed  a  lovely  little  picture  of  mowers 
knee-deep  in  greenest  grass,  while  Milll»rook 
sparkled  by,  and  Moloch  rose  dark  and  grand 
against  the  summer  sky.  But  Miss  Rachel's 
eye  was  not  artistic,  and  her  heart  was  just 
now  filled  with  visions  of  sweetmeats,  with, 
perhaps,  one  little  suggestion  of  Doctor  Bliss 
crowded  down  in  the  corner,  as  the  old  mas 
ters  were  apt  to  introduce  the  reigning  pope 
among  a  crowd  of  saints  and  angels.  So, 
without  heeding  the  lovely  "  bit "  framed  by 
her  front  door,  Miss  Rachel  hurried  by  and 
threw  open  the  door  of  the  parlor,  a  room 
sacred  to  cleanliness,  order,  and  decorum,  but 
upon  the  threshold  she  stopped  dismayed. 

The  heavy  inside  shutters  were  all  closed 
except  the  upper  half  of  one,  through  which 
streamed  a  flood  of  noonday  light,  falling  full 
upon  the  picture  of  the  Cenci  taken  from  the 
wall  and  placed  upon  a  chair.  In  the  deep 
window-seat,  with  the  light  just  glancing 
over  her  red-gold  hair  as  it  passed  on  to  light 
the  one  stray  curl  creeping  from  beneath  the 
white  turban  of  the  pictured  head,  sat  Bea 
trice,  her  hands  folded  listlessly  upon  her  lap, 
her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  painting.  She  neither 
moved  nor  looked  round  to  notice  the  advent 
of  her  aunt,  who,  after  a  moment's  wondering 
gaze,  exclaimed  : 

"  Good  gracious,  Beatrice,  what  Jiave  you 
got  the  room  fixed  up  this  style  for  ?" 

"  I  wanted  to  see  this  picture,  Aunt  Rachel, 
and  it  hung  in  a  bad  light,"  said  the  girl 
wearily. 

"See  that  picture!  Well,  I  shouk  say 
you'd  had  a  chance  in  the  course  of  twenty 
years  !  Didn't  you  ever  notice  it  before  ?" 

"  She  was  killed — beheaded,  was  she  not  ?" 
asked  Beatrice,  unheeding  the  little  sarcasm. 

"Yes,  I  believe  so.  I  forget  about  it  just 
now  ;  but  I  think  that  is  what  your  mother 
said." 

"And  she  looked  just  so  calm  and  serene 
when  they  came  to  lead  her  out  to  die,  they 
say,"  pursued  Beatrice  in  the  same  dreamy 
way. 

"  Who  says  ?  She  died  a  hundred  or  more 
years  ago  in  Italy,  or  somewhere  out  there, 
and  who  is  to  say  how  she  looked  or  how  she 
felt  ?  I  value  the  picture  more  for  its  likeness 
to  your  mother  than  for  itself.  It  does  look  a 
sight  like  her  if  the  hair  was  fixed  differently, 
and  it  had  a  common  sort  of  dress  on,"  said 


THE   SHADOW   OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


Aunt  Rachel,  gazing  thoughtfully  at  the 
painting. 

"  And  like  me  too,  does  it  not  ?"  asked  Be 
atrice,  looking  at  her  aunt  a  little  anxiously. 

"  Well,  yes,  it  does — though  why  it  should 
look  like  you  and  your  mother  too,  /  don't 
See,"  said  Miss  Rachel  with  emphasis. 

"  Why  ?  Did  not  we  look  alike  ?  I  always 
supposed  we  did,"  exclaimed  Beatrice  in  a 
tone  of  dismay. 

" '  Looks  are  nothing ;  behavior's  every 
thing,' "  quoted  Miss  Rachel.  "  And  when 
you  come  to  behavior,  you  and  your  mother 
are  as  near  alike  as  cream  and  red  pepper — 
just  about.  Alice  was  the  sweetest,  prettiest, 
patientest  woman  that  ever  trod — never  want 
ing  any  thing  she  ought  not  to  have  ;  never 
thwarting  people  that  tried  to  do  her  good;  never 
answering  back  or  saying  pert,  saucy  things 
to  her  elders  and  betters,  or  fretting  because 
she  wasn't  the  queen  and  Pope  of  Rome." 

"And  I  am  all  that,  she  was  not,"  interposed 
Beatrice,  half  inquiringly,  half  pleadingly, 
as  she  looked  up  into  her  aunt's  face,  which 
softened  as  she  met  that  look. 

"  Well,  I  don't  say  that,"  replied  she, 
smoothing  down  her  brown-linen  apron,  and 
pleating  the  string  between  her  fingers.  "  You 
have  your  good  points  and  your  bad  ones,  like 
the  rest  of  us,  I  suppose,  Trix,  but  you're  not 
like  your  mother — more  like  your  great-aunt 
there  in  the  corner,  though  you  don't  look 
like  her  " 

"  Tell  me  about  her.  I  never  heard  any 
thing  but  her  name,  and  that  she  married  a 
nobleman,"  said  Beatrice,  opening  the  other 
iront  shutter,  and  looking  with  some  curiosity 
at  a  picture  hanging  upon  the  opposite  wall. 

It  was  the  portrait  of  a  woman  in  her  ripest 
bloom,  with  clear  gray  eyes,  red  lips,  at  once 
full  and  firm,  a  low  forehead,  with  blue-black 
hair  rolled  high  above  it,  a  rich,  sunny  com 
plexion,  and  a  square  white  chin.  Will, 
strength,  and  passion  marked  this  face  for 
their  own  ;  and  gazing  at  it,  Beatrice  felt  an 
answering  chord  thrill  through  her  own 
heart. 

"  Tell  me  about  her,  Aunt  Rachel,"  said  she 
softly. 

"  Why,  you  must  have  heard  about  her 
from  grandfather.  He  was  always  fond  of 
telling  about  her  till  he  got  so  silent  lately. 
Her  name  was  Miriam  Barstow,  and  she  lived 
here  in  the  Old  Garrison  with  her  father  and 
brothers,  in  the  time  of  the  Indian  troubles, 


more  than  a  hundred  years  ago,  I  suppose  ;  and 
once,  when  the  men-folks  were  all  away,  and  a 
party  of  savages  came  to  plunder  and  burn 
the  house — for  they  spited  it,  you  see,  because 
it  had  sheltered  the  folks  they  were  after  so 
many  times — she  saw  them  coming,  and  bar 
red  the  doors  and  windows,  and  parleyed  with 
them  out  of  one  of  the  upper  casements.  They 
tried  to  shoot  her  with  their  arrows-  and  there's 
the  stone  head  of  one  buried  in  the  side  of  the 
window  now,  there  in  my  chamber — and  then 
they  set  out  to  burn  the  house  down.  She 
warned  them  off  once  or  twice,  but  they  didn't 
mind,  and  then  she  took  down  her  father's 
musket  and  shot  the  head  man  dead  in  his 
tracks.  He  fell,  so  I've  heard,  right  across  the 
door-stone,  and  his  blood  made  that  dark 
streak  you  can  see  there  now  ;  for  blood  never 
washes  out,  especially  if  it's  shed  in  anger, 
and  his  hasn't." - 

"And  what  became  of  her  then,  Aunt 
Rachel  ?"  asked  Beatrice  with  kindling  eyes. 

"  Why,  the  Indians  ran  away,  I  believe, 
and  the  men-folks  came  hurrying  home  to 
see  what  was  the  matter ;  and  here  she  was  as 
cool  as  you  please,  not  scared  a  bit.  After 
that  she  married  an  English  lord  that  came 
over  here  and  travelled  round  to  seethe  coun 
try.  She  was  pleased  enough,  so  they  say, 
for  she  was  as  proud  and  haughty  as  she  was 
smart ;  and  after  she  got  to  England  she  sent 
home  this  picture  to  let  her  folks  see  how 
fine  she  dressed,  I  expect.  Don't  you  see, 
she's  got  on  a  velvet  gown,  and  those  are  dia 
monds  round  her  neck  and  in  her  ears.  She 
was  Lady  Daventry  then,  all  over." 

"  But  she  would  have  taken  off  velvet  and 
diamonds  and  defended  her  fathers  house 
against  the  Indians  again,  if  it  had  come  in 
her  way  to  do  so,  and  done  it  as  coolly  and 
as  well  as  she  did  while  she  wore  linsey- 
woolsey  and  tow-cloth  here  at  home,"  said 
Beatrice  proudly.  "  And  she  would  have  gone 
to  her  death  as  haughtily  as  Beatrice  did  se 
renely  to  hers.  She  would  have  defied  Death, 
as  Beatrice  conquered  him." 

"  Well,  I  haven't  any  more  time  to  waste 
on  pictures  or  talk,  and  I  should  hope  you 
hadn't  either,"  said  Aunt  Rachel,  coining 
back  to  real  life  rather  crossly.  "  Here's 
your  uncle  coming  to  tea,  and  this  room  all 
up  in  arms,  and  grandma's  new  cap  not  done." 

"  I  will  see  to  both,  and  every  thing  else 
you  mentioned  this  morning  ;  and,  Aunt  Ra 
chel,  I  am  going  to  try  to  be  more  patient  and 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


better  tempered  after  this — only  please  don't 
say  any  thing  to  me  about  Marston  Brent, 
for  he  and  I  are " 

The  girl  had  her  arms  about  her  aunt's 
neck  now,  while  all  the  golden  curls  went 
dropping  down  that  withered  maiden's  bosom, 
as  if  searching  there  for  tender  memories  and 
sympathies  responsive  to  the  desolation  of 
that  pathetic  cry. 

Miss  Rachel  smoothed  the  bright  hair  and 
kissed  the  drooping  head.  Then  she  softly 
said: 

"  I'm  sorry,  Trix,  and  I'll  be  careful  not  to 
say  any  thing.  But  it's  the  way  of  the  world, 
child ;  most  all  of  us  get  disappointed  once. 
Sometimes  we  get  over  it,  and  sometimes 
that's  the  end  of  every  thing.  I  guess  you'll 
get.  over  it,  dearie,  you're  so  young  and  so 
pretty.  Your  old  auntie  didn't." 

"  Were  you  disappointed,  auntie  ?"  asked 
Beatrice,  startled  even  through  her  grief  by 
that  rare  confidence. 

"  Yes,  child.  You  see  I  thought  it  was  me 
he  wanted,  and  it  was  Alice  all  the  time  ;  but 
they  never  knew,  and  he  made  her  a  real 
good  husband,  and  she  died  and  I  had  to  live 
on.  But — well  then !  I  never  said  so  much 
to  mother  nor  any  one,  and  though  I  always 
thought  the  doctor  mistrusted  how  it  was,  he 
never  said  any  thing.  '  The  heart  knoweth 
its  own  bitterness;'  though  there  isn't  any 
bitterness  left  to  it  now,  whatever  there  was 
once,  and  sometimes  it  sort  of  eases  off  the 
pain  to  know  that  other  folks  have  felt  just 
as  bad  or  worse,  and  got  over  it.  I'm  not 
afraid  of  your  saying  any  thing  as  if  you 
knew  it,  Trix,  and  I'm  not  sorry  I  told 
you." 

"You  need  not  be  sorry.  Aunt  Rachel,  and 
I  never  loved  you  or  respected  you  in  all  my 
life  so  much  as  I  do  now,"  said  Trix,  pressing 
her  ripe  lips  to  the  withered  ones  that  trem 
bled  as  much  as  they. 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  we  got  along  better 
after  this.  Beatrice,"  said  the  elder  softly  ;  and 
then  the  two  embraced  once  more  and  sepa 
rated,  each  already  anxious  to  hide  her  emotion 
from  the  other. 

"  Now,  you  put  this  rcom  to  rights,  won't 
you?  and  if  you've  a  mind  to  bring  in  some 
flowers  out  of  the  garden,  I  dcn't  care— only 
mind  and  don't  let  the  water  go  over  on  the 
table,  and  pick  up  every  mite  of  litter  as  fast 
as  it  makes,"  said  Aunt  Rachel,  going  into  the 
closet  and  opening  the  slide  to  the  front 


kitchen,   where   stood  the  preserve-jars   and 
Nancy. 

"Well!  I  didn't  know  as  you  was  ever 
coming,"  exclaimed  the  latter  somewhat  in 
dignantly.  "  I  might  have  had  the  sarce- 
kettle  scoured  inside  and  out  by  this  time  if 
I'd  known  you'd  be  so  long." 

"Why,  you  haven't  been  standing  and 
waiting  all  this  time,  Nancy  Beals !"  exclaimed 
her  mistress  in  the  same  tone.  "  I  should 
have  thought  common-sense,  if  you'd  got 
any,  would  have  told  you  to  go  about  your 
work  till  you  heard  me  open  the  slide.  Do 
give  me  the  jars  now,  and  be  done  with  it." 

Beatrice  meantime,  smiling  a  little  at  the 
unwonted  permission  to  "litter  the  front 
room  with  a  parcel  of  flowers,"  as  her  aunt 
generally  described  the  operation,  took  a 
basket  and  scissors  and  went  out  to  the  gar 
den,  but  as  her  eyes  fell  upon  the  pansy-bed, 
as  her  garments  brushed  the  borders  of  the 
box  and  drew  forth  their  heavy  perfume,  she 
faltered  and  turned  toward  the  house,  but  at 
the  end  of  three  steps  turned  again. 

"  Miriam  Barstow  was  not  afraid  to  take 
the  life  of  her  enemy,  and  Beatrice  Cenci  was 
not  afraid  to  lay  down  her  own  life,  and  I — 
I  am  afraid  of  the  sight  of  a  bed  of  pansies 
and  the  smell  of  a  box-border,"  muttered  she 
scornfully,  and  then  went  on  without  a  pause. 
The  basket  filled,  she  set  it  in  the  shade  of  a 
great  clump  of  lilacs,  and  passing  swiftly 
through  the  garden  and  the  grove,  she 
reached  the  seat  beneath  the  willow,  looked 
at  it,  passed  on  until  she  stood  upon  the  edge 
of  the  brook,  returned  and  seated  herself. 

"  Here  1 1  :st  saw  Marston  Brent,"  said  she 
aloud  in  a  hard,  mechanical  voice.  "  Here  I 
urged  him  to  resign  his  resolution  for  the 
sake  of  my  love,  and  when  he  refused  I  of 
fered  to  give  up  my  own,  and  to  break  my 
solemn  vow,  and  to  follow  him  to  the  wil 
derness  as  his  wife.  This  I  offered,  and  he — 
refused!  Yes,  and  he  said  he  did  jt  to  save 
me  from  self-contempt.  What  does  a  man 
think  of  a  woman  whom  he  must  save  from 
herself  in  that  way?  Good-by,  Marston 
Brent." 

She  set  her  lips  over  that  last  phrase,  as 
lier  ancestress  may  have  done  over  the  dead 
body  of  her  enemy,  and  then  she  rose  and 
went  slowly  back  to  the  house,  dressed  her 
flower-vases,  finished  the  simple  decoration 
of  the  room,  and  then  crossing  the  hall  to 
the  east-room,  where  the  old  people  sat,  one 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


27 


at  either  side  of  the  little  blaze— pleasant 
even  in  summer  to  their  chill  blood— she  took 
the  unfinished  cap  and  sat  herself  down  to 
make  it  close  by  her  grandfather's  chair. 

"Tell  me  about  Miriam  Barstow,  grand 
papa,"  said  she  ;  and  the  kind  old  man  told 
the  story  once  again,  as  she  had  already 
heard  it,  and  at  the  end  smoothed  the  fair 
head  beside  him,  saying : 

"  I  am  glad  you  will  never  have  to  shoot 
Indians,  daughter.  Your  lines  are  cast  in 
pleasanter  places  than  that  poor  girl's." 

"No,  I  shall  never  have  to  shoot  Indians, 
grandpapa,"  said  Beatrice,  bending  over  her 
work. 


CHAPTER  X. 
UNCLE     ISRAEL. 

No  railway  had  as  yet  invaded  the  quiet  of 
Milvor  woods  and  fields,  no  steamboat  had 
desecrated  the  waters  of  Milvorhaven,  and 
such  communication  as  was  held  by  inhab 
itants  of  either  with  the  outer  world  was 
carried  on  by  means  of  a  stage-coach  visiting 
them  semi-weekly,  and  a  packet-sloop  making 
its  passage  when  wind,  weather,  and  the  hu 
mor  of  the  skipper's  wife  allowed. 

The  day  whose  morning  we  have  noted 
was  one  of  those  made  memorable  by  the  arri 
val  of  the  stage,  and  punctually  at  five  o'clock 
it  appeared,  rattling  down  the  hill,  across  the 
little  bridge  and  round  the  corner,  until,  with  a 
superfluous  whirl  and  flourish  in  honor  of  its 
freight,  it  paused  at  the  gate  of  the  Old  Gar 
rison  House,  whose  inmates  awaited  it  at  the 
open  door. 

"  Here's  all  your  folks  waiting  to  see  you," 
said  Aaron  Bunce,  the  driver,  swinging  him 
self  off  his  bos  and  opening  the  door,  while  a 
sympathetic  smile  opened  a  cleft  in  his  red 
face  wide  enough  to  display  an  ample  set  of 
ivory. 

"  So  I  see,  Aaron,  so  I  see,"  replied  a  hand 
some  middle-aged  gentleman,  slowly  descend 
ing  from  the  coach,  and  putting  a  hand  in  his 
pocket,  while  the  smile  upon  the  driver's  rubi 
cund  face  widened  expectantly.  And  while 
Mr.  Israel  Barstow  pays  his  passage-money,  and 
adds,  according  to  his  gracious  wont,  a  buono- 
mano  for  the  benefit  of  his  old  friend  and  play 
mate,  Aaron  Bunce,  we  have  time  to  notice  that 
he  is  a  man  of  about  fifty  years  old,  handsomely 
and  soberly  attired,  although  his  watch-chain 
is  of  the  heaviest,  and  the  solitaire  diamond 
fastening  his  black  cravat  is  of  the  costliest. 


For  the  rest,  Israel  Barstow  is  the  oldest  and 
now  only  son  of  the  old  man  watching  his 
arrival  from  the  open  door  ;  is  a  bachelor,  and 
a  very  prosperous  merchant  in  the  China 
trade,  a  circumstance  memorized  to  the  in 
habitants  of  the  Old  Garrison  House  by  the 
periodical  arrival  of  chests  of  tea,  boxes 
containing  blue -printed  china  jars  of  pre 
served  ginger,  bamboo,  limes,  sugar-cane, 
and  a  curious  compound  called  chow-chow 
sweetmeat ;  dress-patterns  of  silk,  handker 
chiefs,  shawls,  toys  of  carved  ivory,  pictures 
upon  rice-paper,  monstrously  drawn  and  gor 
geously  colored  ;  an  occasional  bit  of  furniture 
or  china,  and  all  the  other  odd  or  useful  pres 
ents  abounding  among  the  fortunate  friends 
of  oriental  traders.  Nor  can  it  be  denied  that 
Mr.  Israel  Barstow's  visits  to  his  paternal 
home  were  hailed  with  all  the  more  pleasure 
and  interest  from  the  circumstance  of  his 
never  coming  empty-handed,  or  failing  to 
bring  some  especial  gift  to  each  member  of 
the  family  carefully  adapted  to  the  especial 
taste  of  the  individual — a  style  of  gift-making 
contrasting  favorably  with  the  practice  of  those 
persons  who  offer  presents  as  Timothy,  Lord 
Dexter  did  punctuation  —  namely  :  in  the 
lump,  to  be  distributed  according  to  taste. 

But  Mr.  Barstow  is  already  upon  the  door 
step,  witli  his  mother's  arms  around  his  neck, 
and  her  withered  lips  pressed  to  his.  Then 
came  the  warm  hand-pressure  and  the  bless 
ing  of  his  father ;  then  an  angular  embrace 
from  Miss  Rachel ;  and  then,  by  way  of  bonne 
bouche,  a  frank  kiss  from  the  fresh,  ripe  mouth 
of  Beatrice. 

"  Glad  to  see  you  looking  so  well,  friends, 
every  one  of  you.  Father,  you  are  as  hearty 
as  I  am,  for  any  thing  that  I  can  see  ;  and  as  for 
mother,  I  expect  her  to  dance  at  my  wedding 
yet — unless,  to  be  sure,  Rachel  gets  the  start 
of  me.  How's  the  doctor,  Rachel  ?  And  as 
for  that  monkey,  Trix where  is  she  ?" 

"  Never  mind  just  now,  brother,"  interposed 
Miss  Rachel,  a  little  nervously.  "  Let  me  take 
your  bag  and  show  you  up-stairs." 

"Show  me  up-stairs,  Shell!  Why,  I  car 
ried  you  up  and  down  those  very  stairs  before 
you  could  walk  alone.  You  are  grown  amaz 
ingly  ceremonious,  it  seems  to  me." 

"  No  ;  but  I  want  to  speak  to  you  a  minute 
before  you  see  Beatrice,  if  you  please,  Israel," 
insisted  Miss  Rachel  ;  and  her  brother,  with  a 
shade  of  alarm  upon  his  florid  face,  suffered 
himself  to  be  led  away  to  the  guest-chamber, 


28 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


pride  of  Miss  Rachel's  heart,  with  its  neat 
canton  matting,  its  bed,  and  window-furniture 
of  white  linen,  embroidered  by  some  Penelope 
of  an  ancestress  in  huge  bouquets  of  flowers, 
dwarf-trees,  and  wonderful  birds,  decked  in 
Joseph  coats  of  many-colored  silks ;  its  high- 
backed  carved  chairs,  black  mahogany  clothes- 
press  and  chest  of  drawers  ;  its  spider-legged 
dressing-table  and  light  stand,  and  the  great 
easy-chair,  covered  with  silk  patchwork  of 
Rachel's  own  composition — each  article  resting 
solidly  upon  the  carved  eagle-claw  feet  .so 
charming  to  virtuosi  in  antique  furniture,  and 
perfect  in  all  its  ornaments. 

Over  the  fireplace  hung  a  piece  of  embroid 
ery,  framed  and  glazed,  depicting,  in  glowing 
colors,  the  death  of  Absalom,  who  hung  pend 
ant  from  an  oak  whose  acorns  were  consider 
ably  larger  than  his  own  head,  while  Joab 
dismounted  from  a  horse  smaller  than  the 
dog  who  followed  him,  attacked  his  master's 
son  with  a  lance  longer  than  the  oak  was  tall. 
Beyond  a  division-line  composed  of  harps  and 
crowns,  set  one  above  another,  was  shown 
King  David  sitting  upon  his  throne,  with  a 
sceptre  like  Magog's  mace  at  his  feet,  and  both 
his  royal  hands  clutched  in  a  mass  of  hair 
which  the  most  admiring  courtier  must  have 
confessed  needed  thinning  ;  while  Bathsheba 
the  fair  stood  beside  him,  a  head  and  shoul 
ders  taller  than  her  lord,  and  with  two  large 
tears  wrought  in  white  floss  streaming  down 
the  most  hideous  face  that  ever  haunted  a 
Christmas-supper  dream. 

Upon  the  mantleshelf  below  this  prodigy 
stood  a  pair  of  Chinese  josses  grinning  fiend 
ishly  at  each  other  in  mockery  of  the  Biblical 
memorial  above,  and  between  them  lay  a 
rosary  of  carved  ivory,  whose  use  or  intent 
Miss  Rachel  understood  as  little  as  she  did  the 
worship  of  the  josses,  or  the  droll  mixture  of 
religious  faiths  thus  placed  in  juxtaposition. 

"Well,  what  is  the  matter  with  Trix?"  de 
manded  Mr.  Barstow,  as  his  sister  followed 
him  into  the  room  and  closed  the  door. 

"  Nothing,  Israel ;  only  she  has  broken  off 
witli  Marston  Brent,  and,  of  course,  it's  a  sore 
subject,  and  she  would  rather  not  have  it 
spoken  of.  So  I  thought  I  would  tell  you 
lest  you  should  hurt  her  feelings  without 
knowing  it." 

"Of  course,  of  course.  But  what  is  it? 
What's  the  matter?  He  hasn't  treated  her 
badly,  has  he  ?"  asked  Mr.  Barstow,  growing 
very  red  in  the  face. 


"  Oh  !  no.  At  least,  I  know  he  couldn't  have ; 
but  Beatrice  has  never  said  a  word  about  it, 
except  just  that  it  was  broken  off  and  all  over, 
and  he  has  gone  out  West." 

"  He  has,  has  he  ?    Why,  I  thought but 

t  is  just  as  well.  Broken  off,  have  they  ? 
Sho  !  I  thought  Trix  was  all  settled,  and  just 
the  same  as  married  ;  but,  after  all  she  might 
do  better.  Brent  was  a  good  fellow,  but  she 
s  a  girl  to  shine  among  a  thousand.  I'll  have 
lier  to  spend  the  winter  with  me,  Shell.  I'll 
take  her  home  Monday,  if  you'll  get  her 
ready.  It  is  just  the  change  she  wants,  and 
it'll  brighten  up  my  old  house  there  amaz 
ingly." 

Miss  Rachel  stood  aghast. 

"  Carry  her  right  off  Monday  !"  exclaimed 
she. 

"  Yes  ;  why  not  ?  I  suppose  her  stockings 
are  mended  and  night-caps  washed,  aren't 
they  ?  And  if  she  needs  a  new  gown,  she  can 
buy  it  after  she  gets  there.  It  will  be  amuse 
ment  for  her." 

"  But,  brother — why,  who  will  take  care  of 
the  child?" 

Child !  She  was  twenty  last  birthday,  I 
know,  for  there  are  twenty  stones  in  the  ruby 
bracelet  I  sent  her  ;  and  as  for  care,  why,  I 
shall  look  out  for  her,  of  course ;  and  then 
there  is  Mrs.  Grey." 

"  Your  housekeeper  ?  ' 

"  Yes.     And  as  nice  a  woman  as  ever  trod." 

"  But  is  she  suitable — does  she  go  out  to 
parties  and  the  theatre,  and  such  places  ? 
You  know  Beatrice  ought  not  to  go  alone, 
and  you  won't  want  to  be  following  her  round 
all  the  time,"  said  Aunt  Rachel,  whose  ideas 
of  social  propriety  had  not  all  been  learned  in 
Milvor. 

"  Well — yes,  there  is  something  in  that,  I 
suppose.  How  much  more  fuss  there  is  about 
a  girl  than  a  boy  !"  said  Uncle  Israel  rather 
testily,  as  he  rubbed  the  somewhat  scanty 
hair  from  his  forehead,  and  looked  reproach 
fully  at  his  sister,  who  looked  meekly  back  at 
him. 

"  Mrs.  Grey  don't  go  into  company,  does 
she  ?"  inquired  Miss  Rachel  presently. 

"  No,  no,  of  course  she  don't — that  is,  not 
into  the  sort  of  company  Trix  will  frequent.  I 

suppose  I  could  find  some  lady why,  there's 

June  Charlton !" 

And  Mr.  Barstow's  face  lighted  with  an  Eu 
reka  glow,  as  he  stopped  opposite  to  Miss 
Rachel,  his  large  handkerchief  suspended  from 


THE   SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


his  hand,  and  his  hair  in  a  state  of  frightful 
confusion. 

"June  Charlton  !"  echoed  Miss  Rachel. 
"  Yes  ;  my  friend  Chappelleford's  niece,  yon 
know.  Now,  Shell,  don't  tell  me  you  don't  re 
member  Chappelleford,  who  came  down  here 
with  me  last  year — no,  two  years  ago — and 
took  such  an  interest  in  the  Old  Garrison." 

"  Oh !  yes ;  that  old  gentleman  who  cut  a 
piece  out  of  the  sitting-room  wainscot  to  see 
the  logs  behind  it/'  said  Aunt  Rachel  rather 
acrimoniously. 

"  Well,  I  told  him  he  might  if  he  didn't  be 
lieve  that  it  was  a  log-house  originally ;  and  I 
suppose  he  didn't  believe  it,  that  being  a  good 

deal  his  way,  and  so But  all  that  is  neither 

here  nor  there,"  said  Mr.  Barstow,  resuming, 
with  a  slight  air  of  vexation,  the  interrupted 
use  of  his  handkerchief.  "  All  that  is  neither 
here  nor  there,  but  what  I  am  coming  to  is : 
Chappelleford  has  a  niece,  a  young  widow — 
somewhere  about  thirty,  I  should  say — who 
has  boarded  with  him  for  the  last  year  at 
the  Grandarc  House,  and  who  is  about  the 
most  charming  woman  you  ever  laid  eyes  on, 
Miss  Shell.  I'll  get  her  to  come  and  make  me 
a  visit,  and  go  out  with  Beatrice.  So,  there 
now." 

"  And  she  is  a  clever,  nice  woman,  isn't 
she  ?  For  you  know,  brother,  Beatrice  is  new 
to  the  world,  and  a  great  deal  depends  upon 
the  first  start." 

"  Clever  and  nice  !  Ha !  ha !"  laughed  Mr. 
Israel  Barstow,  rubbing  his  hands  together. 
"  Well,  I  don't  believe,  Shell,  that  any  one 
ever  put  those  words  to  June  Charlton 's  name 
before,  and  you  would  laugh  at  yourself  if  you 
should  sea  her  once — only  just  see  her,  you 
know." 

"  Why,  brother  ?"  asked  Miss  Rachel,  a  lit 
tle  hurt. 

"  Why  because  she's  splendid,  gorgeous, 
bewitching  —  I  don't  know  what  —  but  not 
clever — that  is,  not  the  way  you  use  clever, 
Shell ;  and  as  for  nice — why,  I  shouldn't  call 
the  sun  nice,  should  you  ?" 

Miss  Rachel  looked  very  thoughtful,  and 
made  no  reply. 

"And  now,"  continued  her  brother  pres 
ently,  "run  away,  like  a  good  girl,  while  I 
change  my  clothes,  and  then  I  will  comedown 
to  tea.  Can  Paul  bring  up  my  trunk,  do  you 
think  ?  It  is  a  little  one  this  time.' 

"  Paul  has  gone  West  with  Marston  Brent, 
but  there  is  a  man  here  doing  his  work  until 


we  can  get  some  one,  and  he  will,  or  Nancy 
will." 

"  No,  no  ;  not  Nancy.  If  your  man  is  away, 
I'll  fetch  it  up  myself.  No  woman  ever  lugs 
trunks  or  blacks  boots  for  Israel  Barstow,  nor 
will  while  he  has  the  use  of  his  own  arms 
and  legs,"  said  the  sturdy  bachelor;  and  Miss 
Rachel  hastened  from  the  room  just  as  her 
brother  laid  violent  hands  upon  the  lappets 
of  his  coat. 


CHAPTER  XI. 
SEMANTHA'S  TEARS. 

IF  Miss  Rachel  had  secretly  hoped,  or  per 
haps  feared,  that  the  hidden  sorrow  of  her 
niece's  heart  would  prevent  her  from  accept 
ing  an  invitation  which  must  leave  the  Old 
Garrison  House  so  lonely,  she  was  disap 
pointed,  for  Beatrice  hardly  hesitated  a  mo 
ment  before  assuring  her  uncle  that  she 
should  come  to  him  with  the  greatest  pleasure, 
and  could  be  quite  ready  at  the  end  of  the 
four  days  he  proposed  remaining  at  home. 

"  And  you  won't  miss  the  old  folks,  though 
they'll  be  dull  enough  without  you,  lambie," 
said  the  grandmother,  putting  her  shaking 
arm  about  the  stately  young  figure,  and  look 
ing  lovingly  up  in  the  pale  face  half  turned 
from  her  gaze. 

"  Indeed,  I  shall  miss  you,  grandmamma, 
and  I  would  never  think  of  going  if — if — I 
felt  that  I  could  stay  at  home." 

"  Can't  stay  at  home  !  What  does  the 
child  mean  ?  Do  you  suppose  we  can't  sup 
port  you,  Beatrice  ?  I  had  to  go  out  to  work 
when  I  was  a  girl,  but  you  haven't  any  such 
call,  I'm  sure." 

"  Oh  !  no,  grandmamma,  I  never  thought 
of  such  a  thing,"  replied  the  girl,  laughing  in 
spite  of»herself.  "  But  I  feel  as  if  I  must  have 
a  change.  That  is  all." 

"  Growing  unsteady  ?  Why,  Trixie,  that's 
something  new  for  you,"  began  the  grand 
mother,  in  a  tone  of  gentle  reproof;  but  the 
tremulous  voice  of  her  husband  interposed  : 

"  Don't  urge  the  child  too  much,  mother. 
These  young  things  have  their  own  secrets, 
and  have  a  right  to  keep  them.  Our  child 
won't  go  wrong,  it  isn't  in  her  nature ;  and 
though  the  lamb  stay  from  the  fold  for  a  while, 
the  Good  Shepherd  has  her  in  His  charge,  and 
will  lead  her  gently  home  at  last.  Come  here, 
little  one." 

And  Beatrice,  kneeling  at  the  feet  of  the 
good  old  man,  his  hand  uyon  her  head,  his 


30 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH   MOUNTAIN. 


blessing  falling  like  a  mantle  about  her,  -wept 
tears  that  left  a  healing  behind  them,  and 
soothed  as  nothing  yet  had  done  the  agony 
of  that  fresh  wound  so  jealously  hidden  in 
her  heart  of  hearts. 

"  She'd  better  go  away  for  a  while,  wife," 
said  the  grandfather,  when  the  old  couple 
were  again  alone.  "  Don't  say  a  word  to  pre 
vent  it,  or  to  make  her  feel  that  we  shall  niiss 
her  too  much." 

"  No,  I  won't ;  but  I  wish  there  was  time  for 
me  to  knit  her  another  set  of  lamb's-wool 
under-vests  before  she  goes.  Folks  that  are 
out  of  spirits  and  cry  are  always  dreadful 
chilly ;  but  I'll  send  them  after  her  if  she 
stays  all  winter.  I  always  thought,  if  Alice  had 
worn  lamb's-wool,  we  might  have  saved  her." 

"  Deacon  Barstow  raised  his  mild  eyes  to 
his  wife's  face  with  a  quaint  smile,  but  made 
no  reply  ;  and  while  she  fell  into  a  fit  of  mus 
ing,  he  resumed  the  volume  of  Fenelon,  which 
he  preferred  to  all  reading,  except  that  of  the 
great  quarto  Bible  always  lying  upon  the 
stand  at  h;s  elbow. 

"  What  is  all  this  dreadful  story  about  Pe- 
leg  Brewster  and  his  little  girl,  Rachel  ?" 
asked  Mr.  Israel  Barstow,  soon  after  his  return 
home  ;  and  Miss  Rachel,  nothing  loth  to  expa 
tiate  upon  the  story  to  a  new  listener,  pro 
ceeded  to  narrate  it  with  all  the  horrible  de 
tails,  and  giving  the  coroner's  verdict  at  the 
end  as  the  solution  most  generally  received 
of  the  mystery  that  to  her  mind  still  hung 
about  the  murder. 

Israel  Barstow  listened  attentively.  The 
murdered  man  had  been  his  schoolmate  and 
playfellow  in  those  long-past  days  when  the 
prosperous  merchant  still  lay  concealed  in 
the  sturdy  country  boy,  predominant  in  the 
republic  of  the  district-school,  not  through  his 
father's  wealth  or  position,  but  his  own  pow 
ers  of  combination  and  command.  His  wife 
also,  Ruth's  mother,  appeared  among  the 
memories  of  those  early  days  as  a  fair,  gen 
tle  child,  grateful  to  the  Deacon's  sturdy  son 
for  such  small  benefits  as  a  coast  upon  his 
Bled,  a  share  of  his  liberal  lunch,  or  permis 
sion  to  harvest  the  chestnuts  beneath  his 
father's  trees. 

"Yes— Mary  Williams — I  remember  her 
very  well,"  said  Mr.  Barstow,  softly  drumming 
on  the  window-pane,  as  he  listened  to  his  sis 
ter's  story,  while  his  thoughts  went  swiftly  back 
to  those  years  so  far  behind  him  now,  and 
touched  upon  ma»y  a  half-forgotten  memory. 


And  Peleg  was  a  fine  fellow  too — a  thought 
hasty  in  his  temper,  and  a  little  dangerous  at 
times,  but  a  fine,  brave  fellow  always.  Yes, 
we  were  boys  together  ;  but  it  is  a  great  many 
years  ago  now,  a  great  many  years.'' 

"  Not  so  very  many,  Israel.  You're  not  an 
old  man  now,"  said  his  sister,  a  little  jealous 
for  the  brother  whom  she  admired  and  loved, 
far  more  than  she  ever  showed,  even  to  him. 

"  But  Joe  was  younger,  and  I  don't  remem 
ber  him  so  well,"  pursued  Israel.  "  My  im 
pression  is,  however,  that  we  didn't  like  him 
very  well.  He  was  a  bit  of  a  sneak,  if  I  re 
member." 

"  He  isn't  very  much  thought  of,  nor  Se- 
manthy  either,"  said  Miss  Barstow,  breathing 
upon  the  spot  dimmed  by  her  brother's  finger 
tips,  and  rubbing  it  bright  with  her  apron. 

"  Semanthy  ?  I  don't  remember  her,"  said 
Israel. 

"  No,  I  guess  you  never  knew  her.  When 
Mary  Brewster  was  taken  sick,  or  rather  after 
she  got  too  feeble  to  do  her  work,  Peleg  got 
Semanthy  Whitredge  to  help  her,  and  finally 
to  do  all  the  work.  She  belongs  to  a  family 
over  at  the  'haven,  and  I  rather  think  they  are 
poor  sort  of  people  anyway.  Then,  after 
Mary  died,  Semanthy  stayed  on,  and  after  a 
while  Peleg  married  her.  She  isn't  very 
well  spoken  of." 

"  I  think  I  shall  go  and  have  a  talk  with 
Joe  Brewster.  I  want  to  hear  more  about 
poor  Peleg,  and  what  grounds  they  have  for 
accusing  that  child,"  said  Israel  at  length  ; 
and  Miss  Rachel,  after  a  moment's  hesitation, 
replied  : 

"  Well,  I  believe  I  will  go  too." 

The  next  afternoon  accordingly,  as  brother 
and  sister  returned  from  an  excursion  to  Mil- 
vorhaven,  where  they  had  dined  with  some 
family  i'riends,  Israel  turned  the  horse  into 
the  sandy  by-road  leading  past  the  Brewster 
place,  and  presently  checked  him  at  the  very 
spot  where  Peleg  Brewster  had  sat  a  week 
before,  and  unconsciously  looked  his  last  upon 
the  familiar  scenes  of  his  boyhood. 

Following  the  simple  country  fashion,  the 
visitors  entered  the  open  door  without  the 
ceremony  of  knocking,  and  passed  into  a 
small  entry  with  a  door  opening  at  either 
hand,  and  a  square  staircase  filling  the  middle 
space. 

"  Knock  on  that  door,  Israel — I  believe  it  is 
the  sitting-room,"  said  Miss  Rachel  audibly  ; 
and  as  she  spoke,  both  visitors  were  startled 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


31 


by  tlie  apparition  of  a  white  face  peering  at 
them  from  over  the  banister,  and  a  sound  of 
hurrying  footsteps  and  hastily  closing  doors 
in  the  room  at  their  left  hand. 

"  Is  Mrs.  Brewster  at  home  ?"  asked  Miss 
Rachel,  throwing  the  question  at  random  up 
the  stairs  ;  but  the  face  had  been  withdrawn 
as  soon  as  seen,  and  no  reply  followed. 

"  Knock,  Israel !"  said  his  sister  ;  and  while 
Mr.  Barstow  obeyed,  Miss  Rachel  glanced  out 
at  the  door. 

"  See  there !"   whispered   she,   laying  her 


"  The  figure  of  a  man  beside  a  high  stone  watt.'1'' 

hand  upon  her  brother's  arm,  and  pointing  to 
a  field  at  the  corner  of  the  house.  Mr.  Bar- 
stow  looked,  and  distinguished  the  figure  of  a 
man  crouching  beside  a  high  stone  wall,  and 
pursuing  its  line  toward  the  woods. 

"  It  is  Joe  Brewster,  and  he  was  in  that 
room  and  heard  us  when  we  camo  in,  and  he's 
running  away,"  whispered  Miss  Rachel  with 
emphasis  ;  but  before  .her  brother  could  reply 
the  door  at  their  right  suddenly  opened,  and 
the  crafty  face  of  Semantha  appeared  in  the 
opening. 

"  Oh  !  excuse  me,  Misa  Barstow,"  said  she, 
after  a  moment  of  apparent  surprise  ;  "  I  was 
out  behind  the  house  looking  after  my  bleach 


ing,  and  I  did  not  know  that  any  one  was 
here.  Have  you  waited  long  ?" 

"  Not  very.  Are  you  all  alcne  in  the 
house  ?"  asked  Miss  Rachel,  fixing  her  severe 
gray  eyes  upon  the  false  and  faltering  green 
orbs  of  the  other. 

"  Yes.  Joachim  he's  been  away  since  noon. 
I  rather  guess  he's  over  at  the  'haven ;  and 
there's  no  one  but  us  two  left  of  the  family 
now,  you  know.  Won't  you  come  in  ?"  asked 
Semantha,  reluctantly  opening  the  door  a  lit 
tle  wider. 

"  Thank  you.  We'll  stop  a  few  moments. 
This  is  my  brother,  Mr.  Barstow,  Mrs.  Brew 
ster.  He  used  to  know  Peleg  and  his  first 
wife  very  well  when  they  were  all  young." 

"  Happy  to  make  your  acquaintance,  Mr. 
Barstow,"  said  Semantha,  in  the  stereotyped 
phrase  of  Milvor  introductions,  and  extending 
a  clammy  hand,  which  Israel  somewhat  re 
luctantly  enfolded  in  his  large,  warm  grasp. 

"  Sit  down,  won't  you  ?  How's  your  folks, 
Miss  Rachel  ?"  continued  the  hostess,  putting 
forward  two  wooden  rocking-chairs  fitted  with 
feather  cushions  in  patchwork  covers. 

"  Very  well,  I  thank  you.  Are  you  going 
to  stay  here  alone?"  asked  Miss  Rachel,  seat 
ing  herself  with  an  air  of  reserve. 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so.  Joachim  calculates  to 
stay  and  carry  on  the  farm." 

"  You  and  he  alone  1" 

"  Why,  yes  ;  I  don't  seem  to  ge~  any  other 
way,"  said  Semantha,  nervously  stooping  to 
pick  some  threads  from  the  not  over-clean 
floor.  "  I  don't  know  what  folks  will  say." 

"I  suppose  they'll  say  a  gwd  deal;  but 
when  any  body's  doing  just  what's  right,  I 
don  t  know  that  they  need  ask  what  folks 
say,"  replied  Rachel  significantly. 

'•No,  I  suppose  not,"  replied  Semantha, 
turning  very  red  ;  and  then  followed  an  awk 
ward  pause,  broken  by  Israel : 

"  I  was  very  much  shocked  at  hearing  of 
my  friend  Peleg's  death,  and  especially  at 
the  manner  of  it,  Mrs.  Brewster,"  said  he 
kindly. 

"  Yes,  every  one  was,  I  expect,"  replied  Se 
mantha,  with  her  apron  at  her  eyes.  "  He 
was  a  good  man,  a  real  nice  man,  and  he  and 
me  were  dreadful  fond  of  each  other  always. 
And  then,  as  you  say,  Mr.  Barstow,  it  makes 
it  so  much  harder  to  bear  when  we  think  that 
it  was  his  own  child  did  it " 

"/don't  think  his  own  child  did  it,  and  I 
didn't  understand  my  brother  to  say  that  he 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


thought  so  either,"  interposed  Miss  Rachel 
with  considerable  emphasis. 

"  Why,  the  coroner  said  so,  and  he'd  ought 
to  know,"  disconsolately  replied  the  widow. 

"Coroners  may  know,  and  they  may  not 
know  ;  but  there's  One  that  does  know,  and, 
for  my  part,  I'm  not  going  to  doubt  that  some 
time  or  other  He'll  bring  this  and  every  other 
hidden  sin  to  light.  And  when  that  day 
conies,  I  don't  believe  it  will  be  Mary  Brew- 
ster's  child  that  will  be  found  guilty  of  Peleg 
Brewster's  murder,"  replied  Rachel  with  em 
phasis. 

"  Well,  I'm  sure  I  hope  not ;  but  if  she  didn't, 
I  don't  know  who  did  do  it,"  said  Semantha, 
wiping  her  eyes,  and  looking  first  at  the  one 
and  then  at  the  other  of  her  guests. 

"What  sort  of  disposition  had  the  little 
girl?  Her  mother,  I  remember,  was  very 
mild,"  asked  Israel  in  a  conciliatory  tone. 

"  Well,  sir,  I  don't  want  to  pay  any  harm  of 
the  child,  for  her  father  was  a  good  man  tome 
always,  but  since  you  ask  it,  I  must  own  that 
of  all  the  deceitful  pieces  that  ever  stepped. 
Ruth  Brewster  was  the  deceitfulest.  She  was 
so  smooth  and  soft  when  any  one  was  here 
that  you'd  think  butter  wouldn't  melt  in  her 
mouth,  and  then  when  we  were  alone,  if  she 
got  mad,  it  was  enough  to  make  any  one's 
blood  run  cold  to  hear  the  way  she'd  talk. 
To  say  she  threatened  to  poison  me  is  no 
more  than  a  beginning " 

"  And  it  had  better  be  an  ending  too,  for  I 
don't  believe  a  word  of  it,  and  I  don't  want  to 
hear  any  more,"  said  Miss  Rachel,  rising  and 
pulling  her  shawl  vehemently  about  her.  "  I've 
seen  that  child,  and  I'm  not  a  fool  ;  and  I  knew 
her  mother  and  her  father  too,  and  I'm  not  a 
fool.  Come,  Israel." 

"  Softly,  Rachel,"  interposed  Israel.  "  You 
have  no  right  to  speak  in  this  manner  to  Mrs. 
Brewster.  We  cannot  suppose  that  any  per 
son  suffering  under  the  affliction  that  has 
overtaken  her  could  tell  other  than  the  truth, 
or  would  slander  the  character  of  even  a 
child  who  is  not  here  to  defend  herself.  Mrs. 
Brewster,  I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  such  an  ac 
count  of  your  step-daughter  ;  but  if  it  is  not 
too  painful  a  subject,  will  you  be  so  good  as  to 
tell  me  what  motive  could  have  led  her  t'> 
commit  so  frightful  «.  deed  ?" 

"  Clear  ugliness  of  temper,"  replied  Se 
mantha  with  decision.  "  She  and  her  father 
didn't  live  happily  together,  and  he  had 


threatened  more  than  once  to  put  her  out  to 
service.  At  last  they  had  a  quarrel  worse 
than  any  that  came  before,  and  he  took  her  off 
that  morning,  and  told  her  in  my  hearing 
that  she  never  should  touch  a  cent  of  his 
money,  or  a  stitch  of  her  mother's  clothes,  or 
come  under  his  roof  again  till  she  had  turned 
a  square  corner,  and  was  a  different  girl  from 
what  she  had  been.  He  talked  pretty  ha'sh, 
and  she  didn't  say  much  ;  but  there  was  a  look 
in  her  eye  that  made  my  flesh  creep  on  my 
bones.  Then  they  set  off,  and  he,  without 
thinking,  I  suppose,  put  his  loaded  rifle  right 
down  beside  the  trunk  where  she  was  sitting, 
and  I  suppose  when  they  got  away  from 
houses  and  out  in  the  woods  there,  she  thought 
nobody  would  see,  and " 

"  Israel  Barstow,  if  you're  a  mind  to  stay 
here  any  longer,  you  may  stay  alone.  I  wish 
you  good-afternoon,  Mrs.  Brewster ;  and  the 
next  time  you  peek  over  your  banisters  and 
see  roe  in  your  front  entry,  I'll  believe  any 
story  you're  a  mind  to  tell  me." 

And  Miss  Rachel,  urged  far  beyond  her 
wont  by  the  indignation  and  disgust  rising  in 
her  bosom,  marched  grandly  from  the  house, 
and  climbed  into  the  chaise  without  assist 
ance. 

"  You  don't  believe  I'm  a  liar  and  a  slan 
derer,  Mr.  Barstow  ?"  whispered  Semantha, 
rising  and  approaching  her  remaining  guest, 
one  hand  covering  her  eyes  and  the  other  out 
stretched  in  farewell.  When  a  woman  is  poor 
and  alone  in  the  world,  and  them  that  should 
stand  up  for  her  and  take  care  of  her  is  dead 
and  gone,  there's  enough  that'll  turn  against 
her,  and  trample  her  into  the  dirt ;  but  Israel 
Barstow  isn't  one  of  that  sort — I  know  it,  and 
I'll  always  say  it." 

"  Thank  you.  No,  I  never  want  to  add  to 
any  body's  trouble,  I'm  sure.  I  am  sorry 
Rachel  spoke  so  harshly  ;  but  she's  a  woman 
of  strong  feelings,  and  she  was  very  fond  of 
Peleg's  fVst  wife  ;  but  she  should  not  have 
hurt  your  feelings  so  ;  and — there,  there,  don't 
cry,  now  don't,  and  if  you  would  not  be  af 
fronted " 

And  the  successful  merchant,  to  whom  ex 
perience  had  thoroughly  taught  the  power  of 
money,  whether  as  a  consoler  or  a  mediator, 
laid  a  bank-note  of  considerable  value  upon 
the  table,  and  then  hastily  joined  his  sistor. 
who  preserved  a  grim  silence  during  nearly 
the  entire  journey  home. 


THE   SHADOW   OF   MOLOCH   MOUNTAIN. 


33 


CHAPTEE  Xn. 

ZENOBIA   AND  DIOGENES. 

"  Htrw  are  you,  James  ?   All  right  at  home  ?' 

asked   Mr.  Barstow  of    the   respectable-look 

ing  coachman   who  stood  ready  to  meet  th 

•travellers  in  the  station  at  the  terminus  of 

their  journey. 

"  All  right,  sir.  We  got  your  orders  by 
•telegraph  day  before  yesterday,"  said  James 
assuming  his  master's  bag  and  shawl,  and  re 
spectfully  touching  his  hat  to  Miss  Wansted 
.who  followed  her  uncle  down  the  steps  of  the 
car. 

"  Well,  let  us  get  home  as  fast  as  possible. 
I  hope  Mrs.  Grey  won't  keep  us  waiting  for 
dinnur,"  said  uncle  Israel,  a  little  impatiently; 
and  in  a  few  moments  Beatrice  found  herself 
seated  in  a  luxurious  carriage,  and  rolling 
rapidly  through  the  lighted  streets. 

"  It  seems  a  little  close  here,  after  the  coun 
try,  does  it  not  ?"  asked  Mr.  Barstow,  letting 
down  the  windows  with  a  jerk.  "  We  must 
have  a  run  down  to  the  sea-shore  after  you 
have  fairly  established  yourself  in  Midas-ave 
nue.  By  the  way,  you  have  nevor  seen  my 
new  house ;  I  was  still  at  the  Grandarc  when 
you  visited  us  three  years  ago." 
"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Beatrice  Avearily. 
"  And  that  was  before  Chappelleford  brought 
his  niece  from  the  South,  was  it  not?" 

"  I  think  he  had  gone  for  her  then.  I  never 
saw  Mr.  Chappelleford." 

"  Not  when  he  Avas  at  the  Old  Garrison  ?'' 
"  No,  sir.     I  was  still  at  school." 
"  Oh  !  yes  ;  I  remember.      Well,  I  have  in 
vited  him  and  June  to  dine  with  us  to-night, 
and  particularly  asked  them  to  be  at  the  house 
to  receive  us.     I  thought  it  would  seem  more 
cheerful  for  yoxi,  my  dear,  to  find  the  house 
full." 

"  Thank  you,  unc.e,"  said  Beatrice,  inwardly 
longing  to  creep  away  somewhere,  and  hide 
from  the  glare,  the  bustle,  the  introductions, 
and  the  effort  before  her. 

"  You  will  be  great  friends  with  June,  as 
soon  as  you  get  to  know  her,"  pursued  Mr. 
Barstov/  complacently,  "and  we  will  take 
her  to  the  beach  with  us.  She  was  longing  to 
leave  town  the  last  time  I  saw  her  ;  but  Chap 
pelleford  never  stirs  from  the  neighborhood  of 
the  libraries  and  museums  among  which  he 
lives  ;  and  June  has  no  money  of  her  own,  poor 
girl.  Her  husband  died  a  bankrupt,  or  worse." 
"  Is  her  name  really  June?"  asked  Beatrice, 
feeling  that  she  must  say  something. 
3 


"  Oh !  no.  It  is  Juanita,  and  people  gener 
ally  call  her  Nita ;  but  I  fancied  to  pronounce 
the  first  syllable  as  it  is  spelled,  and  make 
June  of  it.  It  is  the  same  name  as  Jennie, 
Mrs.  Charlton  says — that  is,  Juan  is  John,  and 
Juana  is  Jane,  and  Juanita  is  Jennie.  Her 
mother  was  a  Spanish  woman  from  Cuba, 
who  married  Vezey  Chappelleford's  younger 
brother  in  New-Orleans,  and  June  lived  there 
until  three  years  ago ;  so  her  blood  is  more 
tropical  than  arctic,  and  her  temper  also  ;  but 
she  and  I  always  get  on  together  admirably." 
"  And  I  dare  say  she  and  I  will  also,"  said 
Beatrice,  smiling  a  little  at  the  lesson  in  phil 
ology  administered  by  her  uncle,  and  begin 
ning  to  feel  a  dawning  interest  in  this  tropical 
June-bird,  whose  praises  her  uncle  so  persist 
ently  sung. 

But  the  carriage-wheels  aireaqv  woke  the 
echoes  of  Midas-avenue,  and  presently  stopped 
mid-way  down  that  aristocratic  thoroughfare, 
before  a  house  large  enough  and  handsome 

nough  to  have  served  as  the  residence  of  an 
ambassador,  or  to  have  crushed  its  parvenu 
owner  into  insignificance  had  he  been  a  man 
iess  single-hearted  and  unpretentious  than 
[srael  Barstow,  who,  opening  his  carriage- 
door  himself,  stepped  gayly  out,  and  tendered 
i  hand  to  his  niece,  saying  : 

"  Here  we  are  at  home,  Trixie,  and  home 
you  must  feel  it  to  be,  for  there  isn't  the  first 
hing  in  it  which  is  not   yours  as   much  as 
mine." 

"  Thank  you,  uncie,"  said  Beatrice  quietly ; 
nd  in  stepping  from  the  carriage,  she  cast  one 
jomprehensive  glance  at  the  house  and  local- 
ty,  feeling  that  the  panacea  for  a  wounded 
spirit  thus  offered  her  was  one  not  to  be 
lespised. 

At  the  door  stood  Mrs.  Grey,  a  pale,  placid 
matron,  with  faded  brown  hair  neatly  folded 
under  a  cap,  faded  blue  eyes,  habitually  down- 
ast,  and  a  faded  smile  upon  her  faded  lips, 
•she  dressed  always  in  black  silk  or  stuff 
jowns,  and  wore  clear-starched  white  muslin 
prous,  and  ruffles  about  her  hands. 

Mr.  Barstow  shook  hands  heartily  with  his 
lousekeeper  and  introduced  his  niece. 

This  is  Miss  Wansted,  or  Miss  Beatrice, 
f  you  prefer  it,  Mrs.  Grey,  and  she  has-  trav- 
lled  sixty  miles  since  breakfast,  and  would 
ike  her  dinner,  I  am  very  sure.  I  suppose, 
hough,  she  wants  to  wash  her  hands-  first, 
.nd  I  am  sure  I  do  mine.  You  have  a  room 
eady  for  her?" 


34 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


"  Certainly,  sir.  Shall  I  show  you  up-stairs, 
Miss  Wansted '(" 

"  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Grey." 

And  Beatrice  meekly  followed  the  house 
keeper  through  a  hall  and  up  a  staircase, 
wrought  and  furnished  in  the  luxurious  fash 
ion  of  the  day,  to  an  apartment  upon  the 
second  floor,  whose  magnificence  was  its  only 

fault. 

"  Mr.  Barstow  wrote  me  word  that  these 
were  to  be  your  rooms,  Miss  Wansted,"  said 
the  housekeeper,  opening  two  rooms  at  the 
further  side  of  the  sleeping- chamber.  "  This 
is  the  dressing-room,  and  this  the  sitting-room, 
with  another  door  into  the  hall.  I  hope  you 
will  find  them  comfortably  arranged,  though 
Mr.  Barstow  said  that  you  would  re-furnish 
them  to  suit  yourself  as  soon  as  you  were 
settled.  ijjhall  I  send  a  maid  to  help  you 
change  your  dress,  Miss  ?" 

"  No,  thank  you.  If  you  will  let  some  one 
bring  up  my  trunks,  I  will  do  all  the  rest.  Is 
Mrs.  Charlton  here,  Mrs.  Grey  ?" 

"  Yes,  Miss,  she  arrived  about  half  an  hour 
ago,  and  is  in  the  drawing-room  waiting  for 
you." 

"  Thank  you.  Won't  you  call  me  Miss 
Beatrice  instead  of  Miss  Wansted,  as  my 
uncle  said  ?"  asked  Beatrice  with  a  smile  ; 
and  the  housekeeper  replied  less  formally 
than  she  had  yet  spoken  : 

"  Thank  you,  Miss  Beatrice,  it  does  sound 
more  home-like,  and  I  hope  you  will  make  up 
your  mind  to  stay  with  us  a  good  long  while. 
Now  I  will  send  up  the  trunks,  and  dinner 
will  be  ready  at  eight." 

Half  an  hour  later,  Beatrice,  whose  hands 
were  as  quick  as  her  head,  came  from  her 
chamber  refreshed  in  body  and  mind,  and 
dressed  with  a  quiet  simplicity  sure  at  loast 
•not  to  offend,  although  a  critical  beholder 
might  feel  that  more  elegant  attire  would 
better  suit  her  patrician  style  of  beauty. 

The  drawing-room  door  stood  open,  and 
Beatrice,  while  descending  the  stairs,  assured 
herself  that  the  room  was  occupied,  and  that 
her  uncle  was  not  of  the  company.  A  shy  im 
pulse  prompted  her  to  retreat,  and  wait  for  the 
protection  of  his  presence  before  entering ;  and 
she  had  actually  stolen  up  several  stairs,  when 
a  reactionary  pride  arrested  her  steps,  and, 
turning,  she  went  steadily  down,  and  into  the 
drawing-room  without  pause  or  hesitation. 
The  struggle,  however,  had  brought  a  deeper 
color  to  her  cheek,  and  lent  a  certain  haughty 


self-possession  to  her  bearing,  so  easily  to  be 
mistaken  for  the  aplomb  of  a  woman  of  the 
world,  that  none  but  the  keenest  observers 
would  have  recognized  it  as  the  defiant  self- 
assertion  of  inexperienced  pride. 

Vezey  Chappelleford  was  the  keenest  of 
observers,  and  he  at  once  came  forward  to 
meet  the  young  girl  whom  he  had  already 
catalogued  as  "  Barstow's  rustic  protegee." 

"  Miss  Wansted,  allow  me  to  claim  a  sort  of 
collateral  acquaintanceship  with  the  kins 
woman  of  my  old  friend,  and  to  present  my 
niece,  Mrs.  Charlton.  Nita,  Miss  Wansted  • 
and  you  have  much  to  do  in  settling  the 
etiquette  of  welcome,  since  both  are,  in  a  man 
ner,  hostess  for  this  evening.  By  to-morrow, 
Miss  Wansted  will  have  fairly  assumed  the 
sceptre." 

"  I  am  but  too  happy  to  take  my  place  as 
guest  upon  the  instant,"  replied  Mrs.  Charlton, 
in  a  voice -peculiarly  rich  and  mellow  in  its 
modulations,  and  subdued  in  its  tone.  Bea 
trice,  while  murmuring  some  commonplace 
reply,  noted  the  voice,  and  examined  its  pos 
sessor  with  a  glance  of  feminine  comprehen 
siveness. 

She  found  a  woman  framed  upon  the  heroic 
scale,  but  with  a  figure  of  admirable  propor 
tions,  with  a  head  which  might  have  been 
regal  had  it  not  been  languid  in  its  pose  ;  a 
face  of  dark,  sultry  beauty,  with  a  life's  ex 
perience  beneath  the  drooping  eyelids,  and  in 
the  curve  of  the  passionate  lips,  and  with  a 
manner  of  perfect  polish  and  indolent  grace. 

"  Cleopatra  !"  thought  Beatrice,  as  her  slight 
fingera  lay  within  the  firm,  satiny  touch  of 
Mrs.  Charlton's  large  white  hand. 

"  No  ;  Zenobia,"  said  she  again,  as  the  other 
led  her  to  a  seat,  and  placing  herself  beside 
her  with  the  air  of  one  receiving  rather  than 
conferring  a  favor,  asked  some  courteous 
questions  of  her  journey. 

While  she  replied,  Mr.  Barstow  entered  the 
room,  and  as  he  welcomed  his  guests,  Beatrice 
looked  at  Mr.  Chappelleford  as  she  had  at  his 
niece,  and  following  the  same  bad  habit  he 
had  indulged  toward  her,  mentally  bestowed 
upon  him  the  sobriquet  of  Diogenes.  Nor 
could  that  famous  cynic  have  possessed  a 
more  dome-like  brow,  stronger  lineaments,  or 
determined  reticence  of  manner.  With  the 
majority  of  mankind,  Vezey  Chappelleford 
lived  on  terms  of  mutual  intolerance  ;  among 
savans  he  was  known  as  a  man  of  profound 
and  varied  erudition  ;  to  Israel  Barstow,  who 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


35 


never  disputed  the  most  untenable  of  his 
theories,  or  interfered  in  the  remotest  manner 
with  his  pursuits,  he  was  a  good  humored 
patron,  although  the  merchant's  daily  income 
far  outweighed  the  philosopher  s  yearly  an 
nuity  ;  to  children  he  was  a  simple-hearted 
playmate  ;  to  women,  a  courteous  misogynist  ; 
to  Juanita  Charlton  a  puzzle  without  a  key. 

"  Sorry  to  have  kept  you  waiting,  friends, 
and  to  have  left  you  to  introduce  yourselves 
to  each  other,"  said  the  host,  shaking  hands 
with  every  body.  "  But  in  my  dressing-room 
I  found  that  fellow  Rowley — my  head  clerk, 
you  know,  Chappelleford — and  he  had  been 
waiting  an  hour,  and  would  have  waited  until 
to-morrow  morning  if  I  had  not  attended  to 
him  ;  so  I  had  to  sit  down  and  listen  and  answer, 
and  sign,  seal,  and  deliver,  just  as  he  ordered. 
A  shocking  tyrant,  that  fellow."' 

"  Poor  Rowley  !  I  wish  I  had  imagination 
enough  to  fancy  his  crossing  a  t,  or  dotting  an 
i,  without  your  especial  permission,  or  your 
amazed  indignation  should  he  do  so,"  said 
Chappelleford  with  a  cynical  smile. 

"  Well,  well,  some  people  tyrannize  by  hum 
ble  appeals,  as  well  as  others  by  downright 
bullying,"  replied  Mr.  Barstow,  reddening  a 
little  at  finding  himself  unmasked. 

"Yes,  that  is  the  usual  style  of  feminine 
tyranny ;  is  it  not,  Miss  Wansted  ?"  asked 
Chappelleford,  offering  his  arm  to  Beatrice  as 
dinner  was  announced. 

"  The  disguise  would  not  be  of  much  use 
where  it  is  convicted  beforehand,"  replied  she, 
with  a  merry  glance  into  the  keen  eyes  bent 
upon  her ;  and  the  cynic  replied  with  a  smile 
whose  beauty  always  took  the  beholder  by 
surprise. 

"  You  are  right,  young  lady  ;  most  disguises 
are  like  the  shirt  of  Nessus,  and  he  who 
assumes  them  finds  himself  ruined  within 
them." 

"  '  Honesty  is  the  best  policy '  is  as  true  now 
as  it  ever  was,  and  that's  as  true  as  the  sun," 
remarked  Mr.  Barstow,  who  had  caught  the 
last  remark  while  seating  himself  at  the  foot 
of  the  dinner-table. 

"  No  need  to  look  in  books  of  reference  for 
that  motto,"  growled  Chappelleford  in  reply. 
"  It  is  unmistakably  English :  none  but  a 
nation  of  shopkeepers  could  have  originated 
it,  or  needed  it." 

"  Pitching  into  trade  again  T  laughed  the 
Most  with  perfect  good-nature,  while  his  niece 
raised  her  eyes  indignantly.  ''Have  some 


turtle  and  a  glass  of  Madeira,  and  consider 
that,  without  trade,  you  must  have  begun  your 
dinner  with  clam-chowder  and  cider,  and  fin 
ished  it  with  hickory -nuts  and  currant-wine." 

"  After  which,  we  have  only  to  consider 
whether  Madeira  or  manhood,  callipash  or 
constitution,  is  more  important  to  a  nation,  and 
the  question  is  settled,"  said  the  philosopher, 
sipping  his  glass  of  wine  with  a  relish,  and 
glancing  quizzically  at  Miss  Wansted's  flushed 
face. 

"Do  you  really  think  trade  dishonorable, 
Mr.  Chappelleford  ?"  inquired  she,  meeting 
the  glance. 

"  Did  you  ever  read  Mill  on  Political 
Economy,  Miss  Wansted  ?"  replied  the  phil 
osopher." 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Nor  I,  and  Heaven  send  that  we  never 
may.  Is  my  friend  Miss  Barstow  quite  well, 
and  has  she  forgiven  my  rat-like  invasion  of 
her  wainscot,  in  search  of  truth  ?" 

"  Did  you  take  a  lantern  to  aid  your  search 
for  it?"  asked  Beatrice,  her  irritation  out 
weighing  her  discretion  for  the  moment ;  but 
her  low  voice  was  drowned  by  her  uncle's 
burly  tones,  and  the  allusion  was  unheard. 


CHAPTER   Xm. 
REIN,  GRAHAME,  AND  LAFORET. 

"  AND  now,"  said  Mr.  Barstow,  as  with 
his  niece  and  their  guests  they  sat  in  the 
dimly-lighted  drawing-room,  while  the  music 
of  the  songs  without  words  Mrs.  Charlton 
had  been  playing  died  dreamily  away — "  and, 
now,  June,  this  little  girl  and  I  want  to  know 
when  you  are  coming  to  take  care  of  us.  You 
made  no  answer  to  my  letter  asking  you  to 
spend  the  fall  and  winter  here." 

"  I  thought  to  tell  you  better  when  we  riot 
how  much  pleasure  I  should  take  in  accepting 
the  invitation,  and  now  I  find  it  impossible 
to  tell  you,"  said  Mrs.  Charlton,  looking  sig 
nificantly  toward  Beatrice,  and  then  upward 
into  her  host's  face. 

"  You  like  her  then  ?"  asked  he  in  a  pleased 
tone. 

"  So  much.  I  am  afraid  I  shall  love  her," 
sighed  Mrs.  Charlton,  idly  striking  minor 
chords  with  her  left  hand,  while  the  right  lay, 
a  white,  glittering  wonder,  upon  her  lap. 

"  Why  do  you  say  afraid  ?  I  hope  you  will 
love  her,  and  she  you,"  replied  Mr.  Barstow 
bluntly. 


86 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


"  No,  oh !  no.  I  wish  never  to  love,  never  to 
hate,  never  to  care  for  any  created  thing.  The 
only  joy  is  calm,"  murmured  Juanita ;  and 
honest  Israel  Barstow  looked  puzzled  and  dis 
turbed. 

"  You  got  that  from  Chappelleford,  but  it  is  a 
cold,  dismal  sort  of  philosophy — not  fit  for  a 
woman  at  all  events,"  said  he.  "  Why,  to  my 
mind,  a  woman  ought  to  be  all  love  and  en 
thusiasm,  more  so  than  any  man  ;  we  go  to 
them  for  just  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  And  find  it  generally,  I  don't  doubt.  There, 
at  all  events." 

And  Mrs.  Charlton  again  looked  admiringly 
at  Beatrice,  who  was  listenin,  with  a  face  of 
animated  interest  to  Mr.  Chappelleford's  de 
scription  of  Eastern  scenery. 

"  Yes,  Beatrice  is  enthusiastic  enough,  and 
loving  enough  too,  poor  child,"  said  Mr.  Bar- 
stow  with  a  sigh  ;  and  Mrs.  Charlton,  al 
though  she  wondered,  did  not  ask  him  what 
he  meant. 

"  Then  you  will  come  and  stay  with  us  ?" 
said  the  merchant  presently;  and  Juanita, 
with  a  gracious  smile,  replied  : 

"  Thank  you  very  much.  It  will  give  me 
the  greatest  pleasure  to  do  so." 

"  That's  right.  You  had  better  remain  to 
night,  and  I  will  send  for  your  traps." 

"  Thank  you.  But  you  have  little  idea 
of  the  commotion  of  a  feminine  change  of  resi 
dence,"  replied  Mrs.  Charlton  with  a  languid 
smile.  "  I  have  oceans  of  preparations  to 
make  ;  but  if  you  will  kindly  send  for  me  to 
morrow  about  noon,  I  will  try  to  be  ready." 

"  Certainly  ;  the  carriage  shall  go  for  you  at 
twelve  o'clock,  and  I  will  amuse  Trix  myself 
until  then.  I  don't  want  her  to  get  home 
sick,  you  know." 

. "  Certainly  not ;"  and  Mrs.  Charlton,  sweep 
ing  her  drowsy  eyes  once  more  upon  Beatrice, 
decided  that  she  had  prospered  ill  in  some 
love  affair,  and  that  Mr.  Barstow  had  brought 
her  home  with  him  to  break  up  the  train  of 
painful  association. 

"And  asked  me  here  as  dame  du  compagnie," 
thought  she.  "  Well,  I  shall  earn  my  daily 
plover,  if  not  in  the  sweat  of  my  brow,  in  the 
strain  of  my  endurance,  and  I  like  carriages 
better  than  horse-cars." 

So  the  next  day,  Mrs.  Charlton  and  Mrs.  Charl- 
ton's  •  luggage  arrived  in  Midas-avenue,  and 
when  Mr.  Barstow  came  home  to  dinner,  he 
found  two  beautiful,  well-dressed,  and  well- 
bred  women  ready  to  receive  and  entertain 


him,   and  to  make  for  him   a  home  in  his 
hitherto  somewhat  dreary  palace. 

"  This  is  the  pleasantest  thing  I  have  seen 
to-day.  This  is  what  a  man  likes  to  look 
forward  to  while  he  is  bustling  about  on 
'change,  or  bullying  other  men  in  his  or  their 
counting-rooms,"  said  he,  throwing  himself 
luxuriously  into  an  arm-chair  after  dinner, 
and  contemplating  the  two  young  women — 
seated,  the  one  at  her  needle-work,  the  other 
at  the  piano. 

"  And  now,  my  dears,"  pursued  he,  "  I  have 
been  all  day  settling  affairs  at  the  office,  so 
that  I  might  be  spared  for  a  while,  and  to 
morrow,  if  you  say  so,  we  will  turn  our  backs 
upon  the  town,  and  go  the  sea-shore,  the 
mountains,  the  prairies,  or  even  across  the 
water,  if  you  will  be  satisfied  with  a  peep  and 
good-by.  for  I  cannot  leave  home  for  more 
than  a  month  or  six  weeks.  What  do  you 
say  ?" 

•'  Which  does  Miss  Wansted  prefer  of  all 
these  delightful  visions  ?"•  asked  Mrs.  Charl 
ton,  smiling  at  Beatrice. 

"  Oh  I  the  sea  by  all  means,  if  I  am  to 
choose ;  but  which  do  you  and  my  uncle  like 
best  ?" 

"  I  wouldn't  give  a  copper  to  choose.  They 
are  all  new  to  me ;  for  since  I  left  Milvor,  I 
have  lived  here  in  the  city,  boy  and  man,  until 
I  feel  strange  anywhere  else.  I  have  never 
cared  to  take  a  play-time  before,  since  I  had 
the  means  of  giving  myself  one,"  said  Mr. 
Barstow  honestly ;  and  Mrs.  Charlton  added 
with  a  smile : 

"  It  is  the  meeting  of  extremes,  for  I  have 
travelled  so  much,  and  seen  so  many  varieties 
of  scenery,  that  I  do  not  care  at  all  which  way 
I  turn  when  I  leave  home." 

"  Then  it  shall  be  to  the  sea-shore,  and  we 
will  go  to-morrow,  if  you  say  so." 

"  I  shall  be  ready,  uncle,"  said  Beatrice, 
with  feverish  eagerness  ;  and  Juanita  quietly 
decided  : 

"It  is  a  fresh  wound,  and  stings  keenly. 
Poor  fool!  By  and  by,  she  can  lay  her 
finger  upon  the  scar  and  smile  at  its  memo 
ries." 

A  few  days  later  found  Mr.  Barstow  and  his 
"family,"  as  he  liked  to  call  the  beauti 
ful  Avomen  under  his  charge,  established  at 
one  of  the  loveliest  points  upon  the  New- 
England  coast,  and  entering  with  avidity  into 
the  life  about  them.  The  place  was  crowdeVl, 
and  both  Mrs.  Charlton  and  Mr.  Barstow 


THE  SHADOW   OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


37 


found  many  acquaintances — she  among  the 
gayest,  and  he  among  the  soberest  of  the 
crowd. 

Beatrice  knew  no  one,  and  cared  to  know 
no  one — contenting  herself  with  nature,  and 
continually  stealing  away  to  sit  upon  the 
rocks  by  the  shore,  or  weary  herself  to  ex 
haustion  in  mountain  scrambles,  and  wood 
land  walks. 

"  This  will  not  do ;  she  might  as  well  have 
stayed  in  Milvor,"  said  Uncle  Israel  confiden 
tially  to  Juanita  one  day,  when  his  wilful  niece 
had  quietly  disappeared  from  a  projected  bowl 
ing  party.  "  June,  we  must  keep  her  among  peo 
ple,  make  her  merry,  teach  her  to  flirt  as  these 
other  girls  do — any  thing  to  take  up  her  mind. 
The  truth  is,  you  see,  the  poor  child  has  met 
with  a  disappointment ;  I  don't  know  much 
about  it  myself,  and  I  never  should  speak  of 
it  to  her  ;  but  she  needs  to  change  the  scene 
inside  her  mind,  as  well  as  outside  her  body. 
Now,  you  can  do  that,  if  any  one  can,  I  am 
sure." 

"  Yes,  I  can  do  that,"  said  Mrs.  Charlton, 
with  one  of  her  smiles  of  languid  power.  And 
that  evening  she  introduced  Bein,  the  artist ; 
Grahame,  the  author ;  and  Laforet,  the  in 
vincible  of  the  salons,  to  her  charge,  having 
previously  dropped  a  quiet  word  into  the  ear 
of  each. 

"  Have  you  ever  dreamed  of  such  a  head  for 
a  study  ?"  asked  she  of  Rein  ;  and  while  he 
looked,  she  murmured  to  Grahame : 

"  There  is  a  story  there.  See  if  you  can 
find  it  out."  And  to  Laforet : 

"  She  is  to  come  out  this  winter,  and  will 
make  a  sensation.  I  will  introduce  you  be 
fore  the  world  finds  her  out." 

So  these  three  men,  the  nucleus  of  "  society  " 
at  Dream  Harbor,  devoted  themselves,  each  in 
his  own  interest,  to  the  rising  star,  and  left  her 
no  longer  a  hope  of  solitude  or  quiet.  Did 
she  wander  to  the  sea-shore  or  the  mountains? 
Rein  quietly  attended  her,  and  begged  leave 
to  sketch  her  as  a  sea-nymph,  a  dryad,  an  ur 
chin,  a  saint,  as  every  possible  form  of  beauty 
and  inspiration.  Did  she  listlessly  dream 
away  the  long  summer  hours,  her  thoughts 
wandering,  she  knew  not  where  ?  Grahame 
was  beside  her,  softly  leading  the  talk  to  per 
sonal  experiences,  to  sympathy,  to  the1  forgot 
ten  dreams,  the  impossible  visions  of  youth. 
Or  did  she  seek  refuge  in  the  crowd,  who  so 
ready  as  Laforet  to  ask  her  to  dance,  to  pro 
pose  croquet,  with  himself  as  her  partner,  to 


idle  at  her  side,  and  affect  an  intimacy  Bea 
trice  hardly  took  the  trouble  to  deny. 

"  Why  do  these  people  haunt  me  so  ?  I  do 
not  want  them  or  try  to  make  myself  agree 
able  to  them,"  asked  she  of  Mrs.  Charlton  once 
when  she  had  perforce  spent  the  whole  day  in 
company  with  Messieurs  Rein,  Grahame, 
Laforet,  and  their  friends. 

"  Because,  my  dear,  these  persons  are  so 
ciety,  and  society  claims  you  as  a  fresh  young 
victim,  and  sends  out  its  high  priests  to  cap 
ture  you.  Haven't  you  a  taste  for  martyrdom  ? 
If  not,  you  had  better  cultivate  one,  since  it  is 
your  fate." 

"  Does  society  mean  martyrdom,  then  ?" 
asked  the  novice. 

"As  long  as  you  persist 'in  egotism,"  replied 
the  teacher.  "  Go  with  the  stream,  and  you 
will  swim  easily  and  pleasantly  ;  set  your  face 
against  it,  and  attempt  some  new  method  of 
overcoming  the  inevitable,  and  you  will  be  in 
every  one's  way,  and  every  one  in  yours,  and 
will  finally  be  overwhelmed  and  drowned." 

'  But  with  what  stream  am  I  to  swim  ?" 
asked  Beatrice  wearily.  "  I  do  not  care  for 
Mr.  Rein's  ideas  of  art — they  seem  to  me  con 
ventional  and  hackneyed.  Mr.  Grahame's 
favorite  literature  is  too  sentimental  for  my 
taste,  and  Mr.  Laforet's  gossip  is  a  weariness 
to  the  flesh.  Am  I  to  force  myself  to  sympa 
thize  with  my  antipathies  ?" 

Mrs.  Charlton  raised  a  warning  hand. 
"  To  answer  the  end  of  your  question  first, 
my  dear,  let  me  warn  you  against  that  style 
of  thing :  antitheses,  syllogisms,  argument, 
metaphysics,  are  all  topics  tie/entire  to  a  de- 
Initante.  They  are. the  weapons  of  maturity, 
of  waning  beauty,  and  it  is  as  unfair  and  un 
becoming  for  your  use  as  rouge  or  pearl- 
powder,  antimony  or  belladonna." 

"  Who  uses  antimony  and  belladonna  ?" 
asked  Beatrice,  yielding  to  a  small  side-cur 
rent  of  feminine  curiosity. 

"  Secrets  of  the  prison-house,"  gayly  re 
plied  Juanita.  "  I  won't  even  tell  you  their 
uses  ;  but  again  I  warn  you  against  the  deep 
waters  which  are  as  yet  bad  style  for  you. 
Freshness,  nalvet$,  universal  interest  in  all 
persons,  all  pursuits  not  too  heavy  for  you, 
all  topics  of  the  day — this  is  your  role.  You 
have  a  taste  for  repartee — indulge  it  sparingly 
and  mildly.  The  reputation  of  a  satirist,  or 
even  of  a  wit,  is  as  fatal  to  a  young  beauty  as 
that  of  a  las  Ueu.  All  tliis  will  come  in  time  ; 
but  meanwhile  accept  Rein's  teachings  in  art, 


88 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


Grahame's  in  literature,  and  Laforet's  in  so 
ciety.  They  are  all  fools,  but  they  are  the 
world's  mouthpieces,  and  their  jargon  is  its 
Shibboleth.  Learn  it,  for  it  as  necessary  as 
French  in  the  circle  you  are  entering." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Beatrice  sadly.  "  Per 
haps  I  had  better  have  stayed  at  Milvor." 

"  Not  at  all,  dear.  You  would  have  died 
there — perished  of " 

"What?"  inquired  the  girl,  flushing  like 
the  morning. 

"  Of  egotism,"  coolly  replied  Juanita.  "  You 
were  quite  too  important  to  yourself  there — to 
other  persons  also,  no  doubt ;  but  to  yourself 
fatally.  In  the  world,  we  soon  learn  that  our 
own  experience  is  every  one's  experience,  that 
our  original  ideas  are  hackneyed,  and  our  life- 
hurts  are  other  people's  callous  scars.  It  is  a 
good  school." 

"  You  indulge  in  the  philosophies  you  deny 
me,"  said  Beatrice,  smiling  bitterly. 

"My  dear,  I  am  thirty-three  years $ld,  and 
at  sixteen  I  had  seen  more  of  the  world  than 
you  at  twenty.  Do  not  revenge  yourself  by 
disliking  me,  for  I  like  you  better  than  any 
one  I  have  met  in  a  dozen  years." 

"  Do  you  ?  Thank  you,"  hesitated  Bea 
trice.  "  I  do  not  dislike  you  indeed,  but  I 
dislike  your  theories  and  your  world  more 
than  I  can  tell." 

"  You  will  come  to  adopt  both  as  your  own, 
my  poor  child.  Good-night." 

"  Good-night.  I  am  so  sorry  to  seem  un 
grateful,"  said  the  girl ;  but  her  new  friend 
only  smiled  a  little,  and  went  without  reply. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 
A  FRIEND. 

THE  next  day  had  been  appointed  for  an 
excursion  up  the  mountain,  but  the  advent 
in  the  morning  of  a  rival  base-ball  club, 
challenged  some  days  before  by  the  champions 
of  that  noble  game  resident  at  Dream  Harbor, 
broke  up  all  other'ixcursions,  and  filled  the 
public  mind  with  visions  of  blue  or  scarlet 
banners,  badges,  dresses,  prizes,  and  prepara 
tions.  Even  the  dogs  of  the  respective  houses, 
and  sheep  of  the  field  where  the  match  was 
to  befilayed,  were  decorated  with  ribbons  of 
the  rival  colors,  and  one  enthusiastic  young 
lady  was  heard  to  propose  that  a  couple  of 
calves  grazing  in  an  adjacent  paddock  should 
be  adorned,  the  one  in  blue  and  the  other  in 
red  ribbons,  and  turned  loose  among  the  com 
batants  ;  but  this  notion  was  for  some  reason. 


hastily  suppressed,  and  the  young  lady  de 
tailed  to  the  manufacture  of  paper  caps  for 
the  players,  each  one  with  a  bow  of  ribbon 
upon  its  pointed  top. 

Beatrice,  who  cared  not  at  all  for  base-ball, 
and  a  great  deal  for  mountains,  watched  these 
preparations  with  rather  petulant  disdain,  and 
finally,  by  condescending  to  a  little  coaxing, 
persuaded  her  uncle  to  resume  the  idea  of  the 
excursion,  confining  the  party  to  their  two 
selves ;  for  Mrs.  Charlton  was  already  the 
centre  of  an  eager  throng,  each  claiming  her 
as  a  partisan,  and  making  her  umpire  upon 
various  questions  of  dress,  usage,  and  pro 
priety. 

"  Of  course  I  must  side  with  the  red,  for  I 
have  not  a  scrap  of  blue  anything  in  my  pos- 
ssssion  ;  and  scarlet  is  the  only  color  I  wear. 
See,  I  assume  my  badge." 

And  winding  an  Indian  scarf  about  her 
head,  she  became  at  once  a  sultana,  a  Zobeide, 
a  picture,  an  "  Admirable  of  -the  Red,"  as  a 
very  young  man,  still  in  his  Sophomore  year, 
remarked  with  the  air  of  saying  a  good  thing. 

"  She  can  spare  us,  uncle,  and  of  course  it  is 
proper  if  you  go  with  me,"  urged  Beatrice. 
And  the  matter  was  arranged  with  but  slight 
opposition  from  Mrs.  Charlton,  who  enjoyed 
the  position  she  affected  to  disdain,  and  had 
little  thought  to  bestow  upon  her  charge. 

"  There !  This  is  real  pleasure,"  sighed 
Beatrice,  as  near  the  crest  of  the  mountain 
they  halted  their  panting  horses,  and  turned 
to  look  behind  them.  The  day  was  perfect, 
with  so  rare  an  atmosphere  that  the  most  dis 
tant  summits  lay  faintly  purple  against  the 
tender  blue  of  the  sky,  and  the  gleam  of 
waters,  leaving  the  farthest  shores  within 
the  reach  of  human  vision,  became  distinctly 
visible.  Tempering  the  glow  of  the  summer 
noon,  great  white  clouds  floated  now  and 
again  across  the  fathomless  blue  depths  of 
heaven,  their  shadows  falling  upon  sea  and 
land,  mountains  and  valleys,  like  God's  gift 
of  sleep  ;  far  out  at  sea  the  flash  of  Avhite  sails 
showed  the  course  of  craft  else  hidden  in  the 
distance,  and  still  beyond  them,  ocean  and 
heaven  hid  their  marriage-kiss  behind  a  veil 
of  dazzling  light,  tempting  and  impenetrable 
to  mortal  vision. 

"  Yes,  it  is  a  fine  view,"  said  Mr.  Barstow, 
adjusting  his  double  eye-glass  upon  his  nose. 
"  Now,  I  wonder  which  of  those  peaks  is 
Kahtadin,"  pursued  he,  scanning  the  horizon, 
"  and  Mount  Washington.  They  told  me  at 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


the  house  that  I  could  see  them  both  to-day. 

Washington  is  one  hundred  and  seventy  miles 
from  here,  and  it  is  seldom  that  it  is  visible  ; 
but  to-day  is  so  clear.  Now,  where  should 
you  look  for  it,  Beatrice  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know,  uncle,  I  am  sure.  I  sup 
pose  the  people  up  here  can  tell 'you,"  said 
Beatrice  dreamily.  "  But  don't  you  think  it 
just  as  pleasant  to  look  at  the  landscape  as  if 
you  were  the  first  person  who  ever  saw  it 
and  it  was  all  your  own,  as  to  know  the  names 
that  other  people  have  given  to  every  thing 
and  be  told  that  this  is  Goose  Pond,  and  the 
other  is  Bear  Mountain,  or  Burnt  Porcupine 
Island '!" 

"  Eh  ?     Well ;   but  if    things  have  names, 
why  it  is  by  the  names  you  know  them,  and  talk 


"  The  little  inn  at  the  summit  of  the  mountain." 

about  them.  If  I  send  to  Canton  for  a  cargo 
of  the  tea  that  I  like  best,  my  agent  would 
think  I  was  a  fool,  and  would  write  back  to 
ask  me  its  name.  Don't  you  see  ?" 

"  But,"  persisted  Beatrice,  "  you  don't  send 
for  the  mountains  to  come  to  you — you  go  to 
the  mountains,  and  when  you  are  with  them, 
the  names  make  but  little  difference  to  you  or 
to  them." 

"  And  when  you  go  away,  and  want  to  talk 
about  them  to  your  friends,  what  then  ?" 


asked  Mr.  Bars  tow;  and  Beatrice,  laughing, 
said  : 

"  Your  common-sense  is  too  much  for  me, 
Uncle  Israel.  Let  us  drive  on,  and  find  a 
guide  and  a  guide-book." 

Half  an  hour  brought  them  to  the  little  inn 
at  the  summit  of  the  mountain,  and  while 
Mr-.  Barstow  ordered  dinner  and  awaited  its 
announcement  in  a  comfortable  rocking-chair, 
with  a  bottle  of  London  stout  and  a  stand  of 
capital  cigars  at  his  elbow,  his  niece  strolled 
out  upon  the  rocks,  perversely  determined  to 
make  her  first  acquaintance  with  the  scene, 
alone  and  unaided  by  "  guide  or  guide-book." 
Out  of  sight  of  the  house,  and  yet  within 
hearing  of  a  summons,  she  paused,  and  seat 
ing  herself  upon  a  boulder,  kindly  fashioned 
by  nature  into  semblance  of  a  chair,  with 
back  and  footstool,  she  drew  a  full,  free 
breath. 

"  Alone  at  last,"  murmured  she,  and  leaning 
her  face  upon  her  hands,  she  gave  way  to  the 
tears  that  had  lain,  as  it  seemed  to  her,  for 
weeks,  a  crushing  and  intolerable  weight 
upon  brain  and  heart. 

"  Is  any  thing  the  matter  with  thee,  friend  ?" 
said  a  low  voice  behind  her  ;  and  hastily  look 
ing  up,  Beatrice  saw  a  woman  of  middle  age, 
dressed  in  the  sober  livery  of  the  Quakers, 
but  carrying  within  her  uncomely  head-gear 
a  face  so  sweet,  so  calm,  and  withal  so  strong, 
that  no  fashion  could  disguise  or  disfigure  it. 
"  I  do  not  wish  to  intrude  upon  thee,"  con 
tinued  the  stranger,  as  Beatrice  hesitated  how 
to  reply  to  her.  "  But  as  I  came  softly  over 
the  rocks,  I  heard  the  sound  of  thy  grief,  and 
thought  I  possibly  might  be  of  use.  Is  thee 
lurt  in  any  way  ?'' 

Oh !  no — thank  you.  I  was  thinking  of 
other  scenes,  and  absent  friends.  I  thought  I 
was  quite  alone,"  stammered  Beatrice  ;  and 
;hen  fearing  to  have  seemed  rude  and  ungra 
cious,  was  suddenly  silent. 

"  May  I  sit  beside  thee  for  a  moment  or 
two  ?  This  is  the  finest  outlook  I  have  found," 
said  the  stranger,  quietly  seating  herself, 
while  Beatrice,  half  vexed,  half  attracted  to 
hat  lovely  face  and  reassuring  voice,  sat  still, 
without  reply. 

I  have  been  all  day  upon  the  mountain," 
continued  the  new-comer,  "  and  am  not  yet 
tired.  It  is  a  grand  thing  for  us  who  live  in 
cities  to  see  how  much  larger  the  world  is 
than  we  are  taught  to  remember.  Does  thee 
live  in  a  city  ?" 


40 


THE   SHADOW   OF  MOLOCH   MOUNTAIN. 


"  Sometimes  I  visit  them." 

"  I  live  always  in  Pennapolis.  My  name  is 
Mary  Askew ;  what  is  thine  ?" 

"  Wansted — Beatrice  Wansted,"  replied  the 
young  lady,  with  a  half  smile  at  this  direct 
questioning. 

"  And  did  thee  ever  come  nearer  to  under 
standing  creation  than  here?"  asked  Mary 
Askew,  pointing  to  the  grand  panorama  at 
their  feet. 

"  I — I  have  hardly  looked  yet,"  faltered  Bea 
trice. 

"  Why  ?"  demanded   the  Friend,  fixing  her 

. 


"A  rude  log-cabin  in  the  forest." 

clear,  truth-compelling  eyes  upon  those  of  the 
young  girl. 

"  Because,  I  was  thinking " 

"  Because  thee  was  looking  inside  instead  of 
out;  because  thee  was  thinking  of  Beatrice 
Wansted  instead  of  God  and  His  works,  and 
that  was  where  thee  was  short-sighted.  Does 
thee  know,  Beatrice,  why  God  made  these 
mountains  and  lonely  places,  and  puts  it  into 
our  hearts  to  run  away  from  our  daily  lives 
and  seek  out  the  solitudes,  when  we  are  sorely 
tried  ?  I  think  it  is  that  we  may  see  at  one 
look  the  immensity  of  creation,  and  remember 
how  small  a  part  of  it  our  finger-hurts  must 
be." 


"  But  if  an  insect  is  crushed  to  death,  it 
does  not  cure  it  to  know  that  the  earth  moves 
on,"  cried  Beatrice  bitterly. 

"  Thee  is  not  an  insect,  Beatrice.  Thee  has 
a  soul  higher  than  the  mountains,  deeper  than 
the  ocean,  wider  than  the  sky.  The  grief  of 
to  day,  keen  though  it  may  be,  will  not  out 
last  even  thy  mortal  life,  and  after  that  comes 
eternity.  That  word,  it  seems  to  me,  dwarfs 
all  else." 

Beatrice,  weeping  no  more,  turned  and  gazed 
into  the  face  of  her  companion  with  absorb 
ing  interest. 

"  But  if  the  same  soul  exists  after  death, 
how  can  you  tell  that  the  same  troubles  will 
not  cling  to  it  ?"  asked  she. 

"  The  troubles  of  this  world  belong  to  this 
world :  thee  may  so  use  them  that  they  will 
warp  and  deface  thy  soul  even  after  it  has 
left  them  behind,  if  thee  chooses,  or  thee  may 
make  of  them  stepping-stones  to  a  peace  and 
joy  that  ripen  the  soul  for  eternal  bliss  as  no 
prosperity  ever  ripens  it."  said  the  Friend,  in 
a  voice  so  full  of  meaning  that  Beatrice  re 
membered  Aunt  Rachel's  words  :  "  Most  all 
of  us  get  disappointed  once,"  and  asked  her 
self  if  the  sweet  content  upon  Mary  Askew's 
brow  had  been  won  from  a  stepping-stono  of 
sorrow  such  as  now  filled  her  own  heart. 

"Thee  should  look  at  that  ocean  and  that 
sky  for  the  meaning  of  my  words  ;  not  in  my 
"ace,  I  do  but  speak  to  thee  as  the  spirit 
moves  me,  and  the  translation  is  in  thy  own 
heart,"  said  the  Friend  quietly;  and  just  then 
the  clear  notes  of  a  horn  blown  at  the  house- 
door  recalled  the  two  to  a  warning  of  daily 
needs  and  waiting  friends. 

"  I  hope  to  see  more  of  thee,  Beatrice  Wan 
sted,"  said  the  elder,  as  they  walked  together 
to  the  house  ;  and  Beatrice,  a  little  shyly,  an 
swered  : 

"  You  are  very  kind,  and  I  should  be  glad 
to  know  you  better." 


CHAPTER  XV. 

IN    THE    WOODS 

"  THERE,  Zilpah,  this  is  home — the  best 
;hat  I  have  to  offer,  at  any  rate.  Are  you 
sorry  you  came  ?" 

So  spoke  Marston  Brent,  throwing  open  the 
door  of  a  rude  log-cabin  buried  in  the  heart 
of  a  hemlock  forest,  many  miles  from  any 
,own,  village,  or  even  hamlet,  and  connected 
with  the  haunts  of  man  only  by  the  capricious 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


41 


highway  of  the  Sachawissa,  loveliest  and  most 
unreliable  of  rivers.  From  the  Ford,  as  the 
highest  point  of  sloop  navigation  upon  this 
stream  is  called,  Brent  had  transported  his 
family  and  his  chattels  in  two  stout  wagons 
drawn  by  oxen,  who  now  stood  panting  before 
the  log-house  in  the  waning  of  a  September 
day. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  as  I  be,"  said  Zilpah 
cautiously,  and  pausing  to  look  well  about  her 
before  she  made  reply.  "  Looks  kind  o'  woodsy, 
don't  it  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  that  we  must  expect  in  a  logging- 
camp  ;  but  the  trees  just  about  the  house  are 
cut  away,  you  see,"  said  Marston,  with  an  ef 
fort  at  cheerful  speech. 

"  Hm  !  That  was  so's  to  get  something  to 
make  the  house  of,  I  expect,"  replied  Zilpah 
coolly.  "  It's  a  reg'lar  log-cabin,  a'n't  it  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  I  told  you  it  was." 

"  I  know  it,  Mr.  Brent,  I  know  it ;  I  a'n't 
complaining  —  don't  you  think  it  ;  only  it 
looks  kind  o'  cur'us  to  any  one  that's  always 
lived  amongst  folks  ;  now  don't  it  ?" 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Marston,  smiling,  as  he 
remembered  the  seclusion  of  Milvor,  where 
Zilpah  had  been  born  and  bred ;  and  then  he 
added  gayly  : 

"  Well,  we  must  make  company  for  each 
other,  Zilpah.  Come  into  the  house,  won't 
you  ?  And,  Richard,  you  must  explain  mat 
ters  a  little  as  to  where  we  are  to  get  fuel,  wa 
ter,  and  such  matters.  You  know  we  are  new 
to  this  way  of  life." 

Eichard,  a  veteran  logger,  who,  having 
spent  the  previous  winter  at  Wahtahree,  in 
the  employ  of  Mr.  Mills,  had  been  selected  as 
the  fittest  cicerone  of  the  new  proprietor, 
came  forward  at  'the  summons,  saying  with  a 
grin  : 

"  As  for  fuel,  Cap'n,  why  there's  enough  of 
that  all  about,  I  should  say  ;  and  as  for  water, 
there's  a  spring  right  down  there,  and  the 
boys  might  fetch  some  in  this  bucket  when 
the  cattle  have  done  eating  their  meal  out'n  it. 
There's  a  first-rate  cook-stove  in  the  shanty, 
and  I'll  get  the  pork-barrel  unloaded  right 
away.  I  expect  she  knows  how  to  fry  pork 
and  bile  potaters,  don't  she  ?  That's  logger's 
fare,  mostly." 

"  I  guess  I  know  as  much  as  that,  young 
man,  and  I  know  better  than  to  get  water  for 
folks  and  feed  critters  in  the  same  bucket. 
Paul  Freeman,  you  get  a  pail  out  of  Mr. 
Brent's  goods.  There's  one  there  that  won't 


pizen,  as  I  expect,"  said  Zilpah,  with  so  much 
dignity  that  Brent  was  fain  to  turn  away  to 
hide  a  smile,  and  Richard  grinned  from  ear  to 
ear  as  he  led  the  way  into  the  cabin,  or  shanty, 
as  the  building  would  be  styled  in  forest 
parlance. 

This  consisted  of  two  rooms  and  a  closet 
upon  the  lower  floor,  and  a  loft  above,  furnish 
ed  with  wooden  boxes  or  bunks  filled  with, 
hay,  in  which  the  wood-cutters  were  expected 
to  sleep.  The  outer  room,  into  which  opened 
the  principal  door,  was  furnished  with  a  long 
table  extending  down  the  middle,  with  a 
bench  at  either  side,  all  of  evident  home  man 
ufacture,  and  more  solid  than  elegant ;  two  or 
three  stools,  and  a  smaller  movable  table,  set 
in  front  of  the  wide,  open  fireplace.  This  was 
the  dining  and  sitting  room  of  the  family, 
while  the  smaller  one  behind  it  served  as 
kitchen  and  scullery.  The  closet  was  set  apart 
as  Zilpah's  bedroom,  and  Richard,  Paul  and 
his  brother,  and  the  lumbermen,  when  they 
should  arrive,  were  quartered  in  the  loft.  For 
his  own  use,  Brent  reserved  a  small  room  in 
an  adjacent  building  designed  as  a  store-house, 
and  thither  had  his  personal  belongings  trans 
ported  as  they  were  unloaded. 

Such  articles  of  household  gear  as  Zilpah 
declared  indispensable,  Brent  had  purchased  at 
their  last  stopping-place,  and  the  list  had  final 
ly  lengthened  so  far  that  the  great  ox-wagon 
engaged  to  transport  them  had  almost  proved 
insufficient,  and  the  old  housekeeper,  watch 
ing  her  master's  face  during  the  process  of 
loading,  expected  every  moment  to  see  some 
precious  article  discarded,  or  some  favorite 
scheme  upset  by  loss  of  its  material  elements. 
But  Brent,  like  other  men  of  his  large,  strong 
nature,  was  ever  over-indulgent  to  the  weak 
and  helpless  under  his  control,  and  although 
Richard  grumbled,  and  his  assistant  teamster 
swore,  Zilpah  was  not  mulcted  of  pot  or  pan, 
bread-tray,  clothes-horse,  or  rubbing-board, 
and  Brent  arranged  all  difficulties  by  hiring  a 
second  yoke  of  oxen  to  accompany. them  to  the 
end  of  their  journey. 

These,  her  household  gods,  the  old  woman 
now  received  at  the  hands  of  Paul,  who  was 
unloading  the  wagon,  and  arranged  them  upon 
the  shelves,  hooks,  and  walls  of  her  new  home 
with  much  satisfaction. 

"  There,  now,  that  looks  something  like  !" 
exclaimed  she,  as  Brent  returned  to  the  shan 
ty,  after  superintending  the  ordering  of  his 
own  room.  "  Look  at  here,  Mr.  Marston,  and 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


Bee  my  tin-shelf.  Don't  that  seem  most  like 
Milvor  over  again  ?  Recollect  our  coffee-pot 
to  home  ?  Wa'n't  it  the  moral  of  this'n  ?" 

"I  should  think  so.  Yes,  they  look  very 
home-like  and  housewifely,  Zilpah.  But 
•what ! — a  warming-pan  !" 

"  Well,  yes,  Mr.  Marston,"  replied  the  old 
•woman,  a  little  sheepishly  ;  "  you  see  a  warm 
ing-pan  is  dreadful  handy  in  case  of  sickness  ; 
and  there's  no  knowing  what  might  happen 
to  any  of  us,  away  off  here  in  the  woods,  away 
from  doctors  so." 

"  But  where  did  you  get  it  ?"  asked  Brent, 
suppressing  a  smile. 

"  Why,  don't  you  remember,  while  I  was 
trading  with  that  tinman,  you  and  he  went 
off  to  look  at  some  kind  of  ox-tackle  he'd  been 
getting  up,  and  whilst  you  were  gone,  I  sort 
o'  prowled  round  in  the  back-shop  and  peeked 
into  the  cellar-way  and  the  loft — not  for  no 
harm,  only  to  see  what  sort  o'  things  he'd  got 
Stowed  away  ;  and  then  I  see  this  warming- 
pan,  and  it  looked  so  sort  o'  home-like — you 
see,  my  folks  had  one  when  I  was  a  small 
girl,  and  I  rec'lect  my  mother  warming  my 
bed  over  when  I'd  got  a  bad  cold — and  so  I 
thought  you  wouldn't  care,  Marston,  and  I 
just  tucked  it  into  the  things  that  was  sot  off 
for  us,  and  didn't  say  nothing  about  it. " 

"  But  did  the  man  know  it  ?  There  was  no 
such  item  in  the  bill,"  said  Marston,  taking  a 
note-book  from  his  pocket,  and  selecting  a  pa 
per  to  which  the  man  of  stoves  had  affixed 
not  only  his  name,  but  several  of  the  black 
"  thumb-marks  "  which  our  illiterate  ancestors 
used  iu  place  of  signatures. 

"No.  it  is  not  in  the  bill,"  added  Brent  se 
verely,  as  he  refolded  the  document. 

"  Oh.!  well,  dearie,  if  it  isn't,  it's  no  fault  of 
your'n,"  said  Zilpah  in  some  confusion,  and 
making  a  great  rattling  among  her  pots  and 
pans.  "  He  might  have  seed  it  if  he'd  looked, 
I'm  sure.  It  a'n't  a  thing  I  could  hide  in  my 
pocket." 

"  But  the  articles  were  all  noted  down  as 
they  were  selected,  and  the  shopman  put 
them  into  the  wagon  while  his  master  made 
out  the  bill.  You  have  stolen  this  warming- 
pan,  Zilpah,  and  under  cover  of  my  name  too," 
exclaimed  Brent  indignantly. 

Whereupon,  Zilpah,  dropping  the  tin  basin 
and  dipper  from  her  hands,  threw  her  apron 
over  her  head  and  broke  into  violent  weeping, 
mingled  with  protestations  of  immaculate  in 
nocence  and  wounded  feeling  at  such  unde 


served  suspicion  from  one  whom  she  had  re 
garded  '  all  the  same  as  her  own  boy." 

Brent  looked  on  for  a  moment  in  the  help 
less  and  absurd  way  in  which  a  man  always 
contemplates  a  weeping  woman  whom  cir 
cumstances  or  her  own  will  do  not  permit  of 
his  taking  in  his  arms  and  kissing,  and  then 
he  strode  out  of  the  house,  and  stood  vacantly 
staring  at  the  gloomy  autumnal  prospect. 

And  this,  he  thought,  was  his  home  and  his 
life.  These  petty  and  sordid  cares  within  the 
house  were  to  be  his  relief  from  the  exhaus 
tive  labor  without,  from  which  he  did  not 
shrink.  No  companionship,  no  sympathy, 
no  contact  with  a  gentle  and  more  delicate  or 
ganization  to  soothe  away  the  asperities  of  his 
daily  life. 

"  Beatrice  was  right,"  muttered  he  at  last. 
"  It  is  no  place  for  her.  I  am  glad  she  did  not 
come." 

But  the  idea  of  regretting  his  own  choice, 
of  reconsidering  a  decision  deliberately  made, 
never  crossed  the  mind  of  this  man,  whose  na 
ture,  ardent  and  impressionable  as  heated 
lava,  like  hardened  lava  retained  forever  the 
impressions  so  made.  Nor  was  it  in  him  to 
devote  many  moments  to  repining,  or,  indeed, 
to  reverie  of  any  sort ;  and  before  Zilpah,  cau 
tiously  peeping  from  her  kitchen  to  ascertain 
his  whereabouts,  had  hidden  the  obnoxious 
warming-pan  in  her  own  bedroom,  Brent 
had  thrown  off  his  coat  and  was  helping  his 
man  to  move  some  of  the  heavier  articles  of 
their  load,  and  to  stable  the  qxen,  and  the 
horse  he  had  provided  for  his  personal  use. 
He  was  still  engaged  in  this  manner  when  a 
timid  voice  at  his  elbow  pronounced  his  name. 
He  turned  and  found  the  boy  Willy  watching 
him  attentively. 

"  Well,  my  little  man,  what  is  it  ?"  asked  he 
good-naturedly. 

"  Zilpah  sent  me  to  tell  you  that  supper 
is  ready,"  said  the  child. 

"  I  will  come.  And  how  do  you  like  the 
woods  and  our  fine  log-house,  Willy  ?" 

"  Very  much  indeed,  sir.  Do  people  ever 
ome  here  ?"  asked  the  child,  glancing  timidly 
around  him. 

"  People  ?  No,  indeed,"  replied  Brent  with 
a  short  laugh.  "  Except  my  gang  of  lumber 
men,  who  will  be  along  next  week,  I  suppose 
we  may  not  see  a  human  being  before  the 
spring.  We  are  pretty  well  '  out  of  humani 
ty's  reach,'  as  poor  Selkirk  has  it.  You  won't 
je  lonesome,  will  you  ?" 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


43 


"  Oh !  no,  sir.  I  am  very  glad  indeed  that  peo 
ple  won't  come,"  said  the  boy,  raising  his 
large  dark  eyes  to  Brent's  face  with  an  ex 
pression  of  confidence  and  reliance  that  went 
to  his  heart. 

"  I  don't  think  any  body  •would  hurt  you  if 
they  did  come,  Willy,"  said  he  kindly.  "  Not 
if  I  was  about,  at  any  rate." 

"  I  know  it,  sir,  and  I  should  like  to  keep 
where  you  arc  all  the  time  if  I  could." 

"  What,  stay  with  me  rather  than  Paul  ?" 
asked  Brent  laughing,  and  a  little  surprised. 

"  Yes,  sir.  You  are  the  biggest,  and  besides, 
you  are  the  master  here.  Richard  says  you 
are  the  boss,  and  that  the  boss  can  do  any 
thing  he  likes  in  a  logging-camp,  and  every 
one  has  to  mind  him,  or  else  he  can  almost 
murder  them." 

Brent  laughed  aloud. 

"  Richard  would  make  a  despotism  of  our 
encampment,  and  a  tyrant  of  me,"  said  he. 
"  And  so  you  want  to  keep  where  I  am,  do 
you,  my  boy?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Willy,  looking  once  more 
about  him  before  he  entered  the  house. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 
BRENT  BECOMES  A  LAW-BREAKER. 

THE  meal  of  fried  pork,  boiled  potatoes, 
hard  bread,  bannocks  of  Indian-meal,  and 
coffee  without  milk,  was  set  upon  the  long 
table,  already  noted,  in  the  large  room  of  the 
shanty.  Tablecloth,  napkins,  silver  were  all 
dispensed  with,  arid  even  the  coarse  earthern 
plates  and  cups  produced  from  among  Zil  pah's 
purchases  were  an  innovation  upon  the  severe 
custom  of  the  woods,  which  sanctioned  only 
tin  and  iron  as  table  equipage. 

Brent  had  from  the  first  decided  to  live  with 
his  men,  and  as  his  men,  laboring  with  them, 
eating  with  them,  resting  with  them,  reserv 
ing  to  himself  only  the  privilege  of  a  separate 
sleeping-room,  somewhat  more  fastidiously, 
though  hardly  more  luxuriantly,  appointed 
than  their  own.  He  now  sat  down  at  the 
head  of  his  homely  table,  and  glancing  from 
its  meagre  appointments  to  the  faces  at  either 
hand,  said  simply : 

"Welcome,  friends,  to  our  first  meal  together, 
and  may  God  make  us  all  duly  thankful  for 
this  and  his  other  gifts." 

"  I  don't  know  how  you're  a  going  to  drink 
your  coffee  without  no  milk  in  it,  Mr.  Brent. 
It  a'n't  what  you're  used  to,"  said  Zilpah  queru 
lously,  as  she  filled  and  passed  the  cups. 


"We  will  have  a  cow  next  week,  Zilpah, 
and,  meantime,  if  we  cannot  drink  coffee 
without  milk,  there  is  plenty  of  cold  water," 
said  Brent  cheerily. 

"  I  never  see  no  milk  in  a  logging-camp,  nor 
no  cow  neither,  nor  yet  sugar,"  said  Richard, 
reaching  rather  contemptuously  for  the  sugar- 
basin.  "  Where  I've  been,  they  always  bile 
merlasses  with  the  coffee.  Merlasses  is  first- 
rate  with  fried  pork  too." 

"  Molasses  with  fried  pork !"  cried  Zilpah 
indignantly. 

"  Jus'   so.      Didn't    you  ever    eat    none  ?" 
asked  Richard  over  the  edge  of  his  cup. 
"  No  ;  nor  I  don't  never  mean  to." 
"  No  more  I  wouldn't  if  I  didn't  want  to ;   » 
but  I'd  like  some,  if  you've  got  it  hand  ,  and 
the  boss  ha'n't  no  objection." 

"Not  the  least,"  said  Brent  smiling;  and 
Zilpah,  with  a  snort  of  indignation,  produced 
and  filled  a  japanned  molasses-cup,  which 
Richard  nearly  emptied  upon  his  plate,  fol 
lowing  the  usual  habit  of  his  class,  to  whom 
instinct  teaches  the  lesson  of  science,  that  the 
carbon  necessary  to  feed  the  fire  constantly 
formed  by  fierce  labor  and  exposure  is  to  be 
found  in  heavy  sweets  and  concentrated  oils, 
or,  as  they  embody  them,  in  molasses  and 
pork-fat. 

Brent,  silently  revolving  this  idea  in  his 
mind,  finished  his  repast,  and  rising  from  tba 
table  with  the  rest,  was  about  to  leave  the 
house,  when  Zilpah  touched  him  upon  the 
arm,  and  mysteriously  beckoned  him  into  her 
own  room. 

Brent  followed,  a  little  apprehensive  of  a 
scene,  and  rapidly  resolving  to  set  the  old 
woman's  mind  at  rest  upon  the  vexed  question 
of  the  warming-pan  by  promising  to  pay  for 
it  the  first  time  he  should  have  occasion  to 
send  to  the  town.  But  Zilpah's  conscience 
was  not  of  the  peremptory  and  persistent 
sort  that  will  let  neither  its  possessor  nor  ac 
cuser  rest,  and  so  long  as  her  felonious  pos 
session  remained  snugly  ensconced  in  the  cor 
ner,  behind  a  black  bombazine  petticoat, 
Zilpah  was  very  willing  to  appear  to  forget  it. 
Her  present  subject  of  conversation  was  of 
a  different  nature,  and  she  heralded  it  with 
the  inquiry : 

"  There  a'n't  no  sleeping-room  except  this 
and  your'n,  and  the  loft  where  the  men  sleep, 
is  there  ?" 

"No.  What  is  wanted  of  more?"  asked 
Brent  in  some  surprise. 


44 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


"  Well,  I  don't  know.  Where  was  you  cal 
culating  that  Willy  would  sleep  ?" 

"  Why,  with  his  brother,  I  suppose." 

"  I  shouldn't  hardly  love  to  have  'em  do  that 
way,  seems  to  me,"  suggested  Zilpah  mys 
teriously. 

"  Why  not,  in  Heaven's  name  ?"  demanded 
Brent,  rather  irritated  at  his  housekeeper's 
diplomatic  reserve. 

"  Well,  you  see,  Mr.  Brent,  I  don't  know 
nothing  about  it,  but  I  kind  o'  mistrust  that 
it  a'n't  all  just  as  it  appears  with  these  boys." 

"  Do  tell  me  what  you  mean,  Zilpah,  with 
out  any  more  mysteries.  What  is  wrong  with 
the  boys  ?" 

"  Well,  /didn't  never  hear  that  Paul  Free 
man  had  any  brother.  He  was  took  out  of 
the  poor-house,  and  his  mother  was  a  traveller 
that  died  there,  and  nobody  knows  who  his 
father  was  ;  so  where's  his  brother  going  to 
come  from,  I'd  like  to  know  ?" 

"  Are  you  sure  of  this,  Zilpah  ?"  demanded 
Brent,  whose  anger  was  always  stirred  by 
deception,  even  of  the  most  trivial  descrip 
tion. 

"  Sartain  sure,  Mr.  Marston  ;  and  more  than 
all  that,  I've  my  suspicions  that  the  boy  a'n't 
no  boy  at  all." 

"Which  boy?  What  do  you  mean,  Zil 
pah  ?" 


feet,  and  raised  a  pale  and  terror-stricken  face 
to  that  bent  so  severely  upon  him. 

"  Oh  !  what  is  it,  Mr.  Brent?"  exclaimed  he, 
visibly  trembling  in  every  limb. 

"  Nothing  to  alarm  you  if  you  have  done  no 
wrong,"  replied  Brent  gravely.  "  Come  with 
me — I  wish  to  talk  with  you  a  little." 

And  much  to  the  disappointment  of  Zilpah, 
who  had  expected  to  make  a  third  in  the  con 
versation,  he  led  the  child  into  the  store-house, 
and  shut  the  door. 

Alone  with  him,  the  young  man  seated  him 
self,  and  fixed  his  eyes  keenly  upon  the  terror- 
stricken  face  of  the  supposititious  boy. 

"  Child,"   said  he,  "  I   can   forgive  almost 
any  offence  against  myself,  but  I  cannot  for 
give  a  lie,  for  that  is  an  offence  against  God. 
Will  you  remember  this  ?" 
"  Yes,  sir." 

"  And  will  you  answer  me  some  questions 
fully  and  freely  ?" 
"  Y-e-s." 

"  I  do  not  force  you  to  it,  remember.  If  you 
prefer,  you  may  leave  here  to-morrow  with 
the  man  who  drives  the  oxen  back,  and  go 
wherever  you  please.  In  that  case,  I  shall  ask 
you  nothing  ;  but  if  you  stay,  I  shall  expect 
you  to  give  a  full  account  of  yourself.  As 
said,  hardly  an  hour  ago,  I  am  the  master 
of  this  place,  and  I  want  thoroughly  under- 


"  Why,  Willy.  I  don't  believe  he's  any  kin  '  stood  the  position  of  each  member  of  my 
to  Paul  Freeman,  and,  what's  more,  I  don't  family.  Will  you  be  silent  and  leave  me,  or 
believe  he's  a  boy.  He's  a  gal,  unless  I 
miss  my  guess,  and  his  name's  Ruth  Brew- 


eter." 

"What,  the  girl  who  killed  her  father? 
Peleg  Brewster's  daughter  ?"  demanded  Brent 
in  horror. 

"Sho!  Who's  going  to  believe  Semanthy 
Brewster's  stories  about  any  one  she  spites?" 
demanded  Zilpah  in  high  disdain.  "  Who 
killed  Peleg  Brewster  a'n't  for  me  to  say  ;  but 
you  take  my  word  for  it,  that  young  one  that 
you  call  Willy  is  Ruth  Brewster. ' 

"  That  is  soon  proved,"  said  Brent,  striding 
from  the  room,  in  spite  of  Zilpah's  efforts  to 
detain  him. 

Paul  Freeman  was  not  in  sight  from  the 


will  you  stay  and  speak  ?" 

The  child  hesitated  fora  moment,  and  then, 
trembling  all  over,  but  resolutely  raising  his 
eyes  to  Brent's,  answered : 

"  I  will  stay  and  answer  you." 

"  Fully  and  truly  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Then  tell  me  your  real  name?" 

"  Ruth  Brewster." 

"  The  daughter  of  Peleg  Brewster,  of 
Milvor  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  And  how  came  you  here,  in  this  disguise  ?" 

"  I  met  Paul,  and  I  was — I  was  feeling  very 
bad,  and  he  said  he  could  get  me  away,  and 
take  care  of  me  ;  and  he  took  me  to  Bloom,  and 


door  of  the  shanty,  but  Willy,  crouching  upon  |  bought   me   these  clothes,  and  then  I  came 
the  doorstep,  was  making  play  with  Blunder,    with  you  to  this  place." 


Richard's  ugly  little  terrier. 

"Come  here,  child,"  said   Brent,  laying  a 
heavy  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 


"  I  must  settle  that  part  of  the  deception 
with  Paul,  I  perceive,"  said  Brent ;  and  then, 
laying  a  hand  upon  the  girl's  shoulder,  and 


At  sound  _of  that  stern  voice,  and  touch  of  I  fixing  his  eyes  yet  more  keenly  upon  her  face, 
that  determined  hand,  the  child  started  to  his  !  he  asked : 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


45 


"  Ruth,  why  are  you  hiding  from  the  rela 
tives  and  friends  to  whom  you  belong?  Why 
did  you  wish  to  be  disguised,  and  to  escape 
from  Milvor?" 

"  I  cannot  tell  you,  sir.  Oh  !  I  can't  bear  to 
think  about  it !" 

And  the  nervous  trembling  of  the  slender 
figure  increased  to  such  a  pitiable  extent  that 
Brent  could  not  in  humanity  pursue  his  in 
terrogatory  in  the  same  tone  in  which  he  had 
'begun  it.  Rising,  he  placed  the  young  girl  in 
his  own  chair,  offered  her  some  water  to  drink, 
and  said  kindly,  although  coldly  : 

"  Do  not  be  so  distressed.  I  have  no  inten 
tion  of  harming  you ;  but  I  must  know  the 
truth,  or  I  cannot  let  you  remain  here.  Now 
tell  me,  Ruth,  do  y€u  know  of  what  you  stand 
accused  at  home  ?" 

"  They  think  I  did  it,  don't  they  ?"  whis 
pered  the  child,  her  very  lips  blanched  to  a 
deadly  whiteness. 

"  Did  what '!" 

"  Killed  father." 

"  Yes,  Ruth,  they  say  so.  It  is  a  terrible 
question  to  ask  of  a  child,  but  it  is  my  duty  to 
ask  it.  Did  you  do  it  ?" 

But  instead  of  replying,  Ruth  slipped  from 
her  chair  to  the  floor,  cowering  there  in  a  little 
trembling  heap,  and  hiding  her  face  upon  her 
lap,  while  she  burst  into  a  fit  of  hysterical 
weeping. 

Brent  looked  at  her  in  pity  and  dismay,  for 
he  could  not  reconcile  this  excessive  agitation 
with  the  innocence  in  which  he  wished  to  be 
lieve, 

"  Ruth,"  said  he  at  last,  "  won't  you  speak 
to  me  ?  Say  that  you  are  innocent  of  this  hor 
rible  crime,  and  I  will  not  ask  you  another 
question  ;  for  I  am  very,  very  sorry  for  you, 
child." 

"  Oh  !  don't,  don't.  I  can't  tell  you  any 
thing  about  it.  I  dursn't,"  gasped  the  child, 
crouching  still  closer  to  the  floor. 

"  Dare  not !  What  are  you  afraid  of,  Ruth  ? 
Is  it  of  me  ?" 

"  No,  sir,  not  of  you." 

"  Of  whom  then  ?" 

"  I  can't  tell,  but  I  dursn't  say  a  single  word 
to  any  body." 

"  Cannot  you  even  tell  me  that  you  are  in 
nocent  of  your  father's  murder  ?"  asked  Brent, 
in  a  voice  of  deep  regret.  "  For  on  that  turns 
our  whole  future  relation.  If  you  can  truth 
fully  deny  that  one  accusation,  you  shall  stay 
with  me,  and  I  will  protect  you.  If  you  can 


not,  Ruth,  you  must  leave  Wahtahree  to-mor 
row." 

"  0  Mr.  Brent !  Leave  you  and  Paul  ? 
Where  in  all  the  world  can  I  go  ?"  asked  the 
child  in  sudden  terror ;  and  drawing  herself 
nearer  to  Brent,  she  clung  about  his  knees, 
her  wet  face  imploringly  raised  to  his.  Inex 
pressibly  moved,  the  young  man  took  her  in 
his  arms,  and  seated  her  beside  him.  Then 
with  his  arm  still  about  her  he  said  in  a 
voice  of  tenderest  entreaty : 

"  Little  Ruth,  have  faith  in  me.  Whatever 
alarms  you  so  terribly  forget  it  now,  and  only 
remember  that  I  have  power  to  protect  you, 
and  make  your  life  a  safe  and  happy  one. 
But  you  must  trust  me,  child.  I  do  not  ask  you 
to  break  any  promise,  for  even  a  bad  promise 
must  be  kept,  unless  the  hand  of  God  Himself 
breaks  it ;  but  surely  you  can  assure  me  that 
you  are  innocent  of  the  awful  crime  charged 
upon  you.  That  is  all  I  ask." 

The  child,  no  longer  weeping,  hid  her  face 
for  a  moment  in  her  hands,  as  if  communing 
with  herself;  then  raised  it,  clear  and  lumi 
nous  with  the  truth,  to  meet  Brent's  tender  but 
penetrating  look. 

"I  promised,  and  I  said  I  hoped  God  would 
strike  me  dead  if  I  broke  the  promise,  that  I 
never  would  say  a  single  word  about  it  any 
way.  So  can  1 1" 

Brent  sadly  shook  his  head. 

"  No,  child,  you  cannot." 

"  But,  Mr.  Brent,  look  at  me,"  and  the  child, 
slipping  from  her  chair  to  the  floor,  stood  up 
right  before  him,  her  slender  figure  straight 
ened,  her  small  palo  face  uplifted,  her  dark 
eyes  clear  and  fearless.  "  Look  at  me,  please, 
sir,  and  if  you  think  I  could  have  killed  my 
dear,  dear  father,  the  only  one  I  had  left  to  me 
in  all  the  world — O  Mr.  Brent !  if  you  think  I 
killed  him,  let  me  go  away — not  to-morrow, 
but  now,  this  very  minute.  Let  me  go  out 
into  the  woods,  and  I  don't  care  what  becomes 
of  me  till  I  die." 

And  Brent  laid  his  two  hands  upon  her 
shoulders,  looked  deep  into  her  steadfast  eyes, 
and  said : 

"  No,  Ruth,  I  do  not  believe  that  you  did  it, 
and  although  your  oath  of  silence  must  not 
be  broken,  I  will  believe  the  testimony  of  your 
eyes  against  all  the  world.  Nor  will  I 
ever  ask  you  another  question  upon  this  mat 
ter.  Rest  content,  and  as  happy  as  you  may, 
little  Ruth,  for  I  will  take  you  safely  upon 
my  own  shoulders." 


46 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


"  I  won't  be  afraid  any  more,  then,"  said 
Ruth  quietly  ;  and  Brent  smiled  at  the  uncon 
scious  flattery. 

CHAPTER  XVn. 
SMARTNESS  AND  HONOR. 

BUT  with  Paul  Freeman,  the  master  of 
Wahtahree  dealt  less  lightly. 

"  How  am  I  to  trust  you  again  ?"  asked  he 
of  him.  "  You  have  thoroughly  deceived  me 
— you  have  trapped  me  into  connivance  with 
you  in  shielding  an  accused  criminal  from  the 
law— you  have  lied  to  me,  for  you  said  the 
child  was  your  brother !" 

"  No,  sir !"  interposed  Paul ;  "  I  never  said 


1  How  am  I  to  trust  you  again  f" 


downright  that  it  was  my  brother,  and  I  never 
said  that  I  had  a  brother  at  all." 

"  Prevarication !"  exclaimed  Brent  con 
temptuously — "  it  is  worse  than  lying,  because 
more  cowardly.  That  defence  is  the  very 
worst  you  could  have  selected." 

"  Well,  then,  sir,"  replied  Paul,  throwing 
up  his  head  a  little  haughtily,  "  since  you 
think  so  bad  of  me,  you  had  better  let  me  go 
at  once.  I  am  sure  I  don't  want  to  stop  with 
a  man  that  a'n't  going  to  believe  a  word  I  say, 
or  trust  me  about  his  work.  I  think  I  did  just 
what  was  right  by  Ruth — placed  as  she  was ; 


and  if  you  don't,  why,  sir,  we'd  better  part, 
and  the  sooner  the  better." 

"  If  you  think  so,  you  had  better  go,"  re 
plied  Brent  coldly. 

"  Well,  I  will.  Ruthie  and  I  will  go  along 
with  the  men  to-morrow." 

"You  may,  if  you  see  fit — Ruth  remains 
here." 

"  What,  sir !  you  don't  mean  to  keep  her 
away  from  me  !"  exclaimed  Paul  in  a  tone  of 
angry  incredulity. 

"  I  am  going  to  keep  her.  You  are  free  to 
go  or  stay,"  repeated  Brent  calmly. 

"  Why,  sir,  what  good  is  she  to  you  ;  and 
what  do  you  care  for  her  ?  Maybe  you  think 
of  sending  her  back  to  Milvor  to  be  tried  for 
murder."  % 

"  What  if  I  do,  Paul  Freeman  ?  She  is  un 
der  the  ban  of  the  law,  and  perhaps  that  is 
my  duty." 

The  boy  clenched  his  fists,  and  shut  his 
teeth  hard  together,  looked  at  Brent,  and 
made  no  reply. 

The  latter  returned  the  look  with  one  of 
calm  superiority  for  a  moment,  and  then  slow 
ly  said : 

"  The  matter  is  in  my  hands  completely, 
you  see,  lad  ;  and  although  I  have  no  inten 
tion  of  sending  the  child  back  to  Milvor,  and 
do  not  believe  her  guilty  of  her  father's  mur 
der,  you  are  none  the  less  a  law-breaker  your 
self  in  bringing  her  away,  and  she  one  in 
coining.  I  shall  not  send  her  hack  to  Milvor, 
but  neither  shall  I  permit  her  to  leave  this 
place  with  you.  I  will  keep  her  under  my 
own  eye." 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  impudent,  Mr.  Brent, 
but  isn't  it  law-breaking  for  you  to  keep  her 
just  as  much  as  it  was  for  me  to  take  her?" 
asked  Paul  shrewdly. 

The  question  was  one  which  had  already 
risen  with  troublesome  persistency  in  Brent's 
own  mind,  and  he  answered  it  from  the  lips 
of  another,  as  he  had  answered  it  to  himself : 

"  Here,  in  the  woods,  I  have  a  right  to  take 
the  law  in  some  measure  into  my  own  hands.  I 
must  decide  for  myself  many  questions  which, 
elsewhere,  would  be  decided  for  me." 

Paul  Freeman  stared  for  a  moment,  consid 
ered  the  question,  and  then  said  heartily : 

"  Well,  that's  so,  sir  ;  and  though  you  won't 
trust  me,  I'll  trust  you — not  only  on  your  ac 
count,  for  that  a'n't  much,  but  on  her  account, 
which  is  a  good  deal.  I'll  stop  with  you,  if 
you'll  have  me,  and  I'll  let  her  stop  too — 


THE   SHADOW   OF   MOLOCH   MOUNTAIN. 


47 


though,  of  course,  I  could  take  her  away  from 
here  as  easy  as  I  could  from  Milvor,  if  I  set 
out  to  do  it.  I'm  a  Yankee  boy,  sir,  and 
they're  smart,  they  are." 

"  I  was  a  Yankee  boy  myself  once,"  coolly 
replied  Brent ;  "  but  I  find  that  truth  and 
honor  are  as  effective  weapons,  in  the  long 
run,  as  all  the  boasted  '  smartness '  of  our 
countrymen.  If  I  have  judged  her  rightly, 
Ruth  Brewster  is  of  my  way  of  thinking.  Let 
us  see." 

And  Brent,  who  had  seen  the  child  from  the 
window  where  he  stood,  opened  the  door  and 
called  her  in.  She  came  quickly,  but  timidly. 
Brent  took  her  hand,  and  looked  her  steadily 
in  the  face. 

"  Ruth,"  said  he,  "  you  feel  the  importance 
of  a  promise,  and  you  can  keep  one  through 
all  temptation  to  break  it.     So  much  I  know 
of  you.     Now  will  you  make  me  a  promise  ?" 
Ruth    glanced    aside   at   Paul,   upward  vat 
Brent,  colored  slightly,  and  said  : 
"  I  can't  give  up  Paul,  sir." 
"  I  do  not  ask  you  to  give  him  up.     The 
promise  I  speak  of  is,  that  you  will  not  leave 
this  place,  either  alone  or  with  any  one  else, 
without  my  knowledge   and   consent.     Will 
you  sacredly  promise  this  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  will."  And  with  instinctive 
gesture,  the  child  placed  her  slender,  pale 
hand  in  that  of  Marston  Brent,  and  looked 
confidingly  into  his  face. 

"  Thank  you,  Ruth — that  will  do,"  said 
Brent  kindly.  "  Please  to  wait  for  me  a  mo 
ment  outside  the  door." 

Ruth  obeyed,  and  when  they  were  alone, 
the  master  calmly  said  : 

"  The  child's  honor  is  my  sufficient  guaran 
tee  against  any  amount  of  '  smartness '  on 
your  part,  Paul ;  and  now  we  will  lay  aside 
all  weapons,  and  meet  on  the  common  ground 
of  interest  in  Ruth,  and  a  mutual  duty  to  each 
other.  Work  with  me  instead  of  against  me, 
and  we  shall  both  fare  the  better.  Is  it  a  bar 
gain,  my  lad?" 

"  It's  a  bargain,  sir,"  said  the  boy,  putting 
his  hand  into  that  cordially  outstretched  to 
ward  him  ;  and  as  he  walked  slowly  away  into 
the  hemlock  forest,  Paul  Freeman  thought : 

"  'Honor  and  truth  better  than  smartness ?: 
Let  me  see.  Why  not  try  to  join  them  alto 
gether  ?  I  don't  see  but  what  they'd  fay  ir 
well  enough." 

Brent,  meantime,  took  Ruth  by  the  hand 
and  led  her  to  Zilpah. 


"  Here  is  a  little  girl  who  wants  some 
lothes,"  said  he  gayly.  "  How  are  we  to 
get  them  for  her  ?" 

"  Good  land !  You  don't  say  so,  do  you 
now  ?"  exclaimed  the  wily  dame,  apparently 
overwhelmed  with  astonishment.  "  A  gal ! 
And  what's  your  name,  dear  ?" 

"  Ruth,"  replied  the  child  timidly. 

"  Ruth  Freeman,  instead  of  Willy  Freeman  ! 
Now,  do  tell !  And  so  you  wanted  to  steal 
iff  along  of  Paul,  and  thought  you'd  pass  for 
lis  brother  instead  of  his  sister,  'cause  you 
tnew  we  couldn't  think  of  taking  a  little  gal 
along,  when  we  might  like  a  boy  well  enough. 
There,  there,  you  needn't  say  a  word.  I  un 
derstand  all  about  it,  and  I'll  tell  the  men,  so's 
they  needn't  wonder.  But  how  will  you  make 
out  for  clothes  ?" 

"  I  guess  Paul  has  got  mine  along  with  his. 
[Ie  said  he'd  bring  them,"  said  Ruth  shyly. 

"  Did  ?  Well,  that  will  make  it  all  handy  ; 
and  when  Mr.  Brent  sends  to  town,  he  can  get 
some  factory  cotton  and  gingham,  and  I'll 
make  you  up  another  suit  or  so,  and  that'll  be 
all  you'll  need  ;  and  then  you  can  help  round 
the  house.  On  the  whole,  I'm  glad  you  a'n't 
a  boy." 

"  Well,  is  it  all  settled?"  asked  Brent,  who 
!iad  retired  a  little  from  the  feminine  discus 
sion  of  clothes,  and  who  now  returned. 

"  Yes — all  settled,"  replied  Zilpah  hastily  ; 
and  the  young  man  asked  no  further  ques 
tions. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 
AN  EASTERN   SPICE. 

"  THAT  is  all,  Fanny  ;  you  may  go  and  or 
der  James  to  drive  round  to  the  door.  Now, 
Beatrice,  please  look  at  yourself  in  the  full- 
length  mirror,  and  say  that  you  approve  my 
taste." 

Miss  Wansted  rose  from  the  low  chair  in 
which  she  had  submitted,  during  the  last 
hour,  to  the  hands  of  her  hair-dresser  and  la- 
dies'-maid,  and  obediently  placed  herself  in 
front  of  the  mirror.  Confrontuig  her  in  its 
depths  she  saw  a  regal  figure,  clothed  in  soft, 
lustreless  white  silk — the  hem,  open  neck,  and 
short  sleeves  of  the  dress  ornamented  with  em 
broidery  of  gold  wrought  in  a  classic  pattern  ; 
while  the  arms,  the  white  throat,  and  the 
bands  of  brown-gold  hair  were  encircled  with 
chains  of  antique  cameos,  set  in  dead  Etruscan 
gold— "Vezey  Chappelleford's  almost  priceless 


48 


THE   SHADOW   OF   MOLOCH   MOUNTAIN. 


gift  to  liis  constant  entertainer,  Israel  Barstow, 
and  transferred  by  him  to  his  niece. 

From  this  simple,  severely  classic,  and  yet 
magnificent  toilet,  shone  a  face  more  incon- 
testably  beautiful  than  that  Marston  Brent 
had  seen  reflected  beside  his  own  in  the  moun 
tain-pool,  where  Millbrook  pauses  in  her  de 
scent  of  Moloch — more  beautiful,  because  more 
thoughtful,  more  assured — bearing  traces  of  a 
deeper  life  and  larger  experience. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  ?"  demanded 
Mrs.  Charlton,  a  little  impatiently. 

"  Why,  that  I  ought  to  be  named  Lucia,  or 
Claudia,  or  Veronica,  at  the  least.  If  Lord 
Macaulay  were  to  suddenly  drop  in  upon  our 
transatlantic  gathering,  he  would  suspect  me 
of  intriguing  for  a  Lay  of  Ancient  Rome  in  my 
especial  honor,"  said  Beatrice  laughing. 

"  He  would  probably  lay  his  ancient  Rome 
aside,  and  devote  himself  to  youthful  Colum 
bia  in  your  person,  my  dear.  Confess  now 
that  face,  figure,  manner,  and  costume  harmo 
nize  admirably  in  the  picture  you  seem  so  sat 
isfied  to  contemplate,  and  I  am  so  delighted 
to  claim  as  my  own  production." 

But  Beatrice  was  spared  a  reply  she  might 
have  found  difficult  to  render  both  truthful 
and  modest,  by  the  entrance  of  a  servant  -with 
a  bouquet. 

"For  Miss  Wansted,  with  Mr.  Laforet's 
compliments,"  said  he,  presenting  it. 

Mrs.  Charlton  eagerly  examined  it;  then 
laid  it  somewhat  contemptuously  upon  the 
dressing-table. 

"  Roses,  camellias,  fuchsias,  salvja,  heath — 
every  thing  in  the  hot-house— and  all  bundled 
together  without  design  or  sentiment.  You 
must  not  touch  it,  Beatrice,  under  penalty  of 
spoiling  your  entire  toilet." 

"  Poor  Mr.  Laforet !"  smiled  Beatrice,  rather 
languidly. 

"  I  hardly  think  you  should  carry  a  bouquet 
at  all,"  continued  Juanita  thoughtfully.  "I 
do  not  know  what  would  suit  that  dress." 

The  door  again  swung  open  to  admit  Thom 
as,  carrying,  with  imperturbable  face,  another 
bouquet  upon  his  salver,  and  saying,  in  pre 
cisely  the  same  tone  he  had  used  before : 

"  For  Miss  Wansted,  with  the  compliments 
of  a  friend." 

"  A  friend  !  What  friend,  I  wonder,"  ex 
claimed  Beatrice,  while  Mrs.  Charlton  exam 
ined  the  offering  with  a  very  different  look 
from  that  she  had  bestowed  upon  its  prede 
cessor. 


"  Now  that  5s  almost  a  miracle.  I  could  not 
have  selected  it  better  myself.  Nothing  but 
a  spike  of  tuberoses  and  a  handful  of  Parma 
violets  in  tliisporte-bouquet  of  Venetian  filagree. 
Thoroughly  Italian,  if  not  precisely  Roman. 
Now,  this  is  admirable." 

"  But  who  is  the  friend  ?  I  do  not  like  ac 
cepting  or  carrying  anonymous  porte-boitquets, 
although  I  cannot  object  to  the  flowers,"  said 
Beatrice  a  little  anxiously. 

"  Nonsense,  my  dear,"  quietly  replied 
her  chaperone.  "  If  almost  any  gentleman 
had  offered  the  bauble  in  person,  or  over  his 
own  name,  you  must  have  refused  it,  of 
course  ;  but  dropping  from  Heaven,  as  it  does, 
you  must  accept  it  as  a  gift  of  Heaven — or,  to 
suit  your  ideas  to  your  dress,  as  a  gift  of  the 
gods." 

"Well,  then,  as  a  gift  of  the  gods.  And 
now  are  we  ready  ?  How  nicely  you  are  look- 
iijg  yourself,  Juanita.  I  have  been  so  selfish, 
and  so — tired,  I  believe,  that  I  have  not  looked 
at  you  until  now." 

"  I  do  very  well,"  said  Mrs.  Charlton  care 
lessly,  as  she  cast  one  comprehensive  glance 
at  her  own  toilet  of  wine-colored  velvet,  rich 
black  lace,  and  the  garnets  which  blazed  like 
red-hot  coals  upon  her  white,  satiny  neck  and 
arms,  and  among  the  abundant  folds  of  her 
blue-black  hair. 

"Yes,  I  do  well  enough  for  an  old  woman. 
Come,  here  are  your  handkerchief,  your  gloves, 
and  this  fan,  dear,  which  I  should  like  to  give 
you.  I  have  had  it  for  some  time,  but  never 
carried  it — white  silk  embroidered  with  gold — 
almost  in  the  same  pattern  as  your  dress,  you 
see." 

"  Admirable !  How  very  kind  of  you,  Juan 
ita.  You  think  too  much  of  me,  and  too  little 
of  yourself,"  said  Beatrice,  Avith  a  flush  of 
self-reproach ;  and  then  the  two  beautiful 
women  went  together  down  the  stairs,  and 
were  escorted  to  their  carriage  by  Mr.  Bar- 
stow,  who  sat  smoking  in  his  library  with  his 
friend  Chappellefbrd. 

"Qood-by,  dears,"  said  he,  as  they  seated 
themselves  with  all  the  pleasant  flutter  of 
silken  skirts,  perfumed  handkerchiefs,  laces, 
bouquets,  jewels,  wraps,  that  attend  such  em 
barkations.  "  Have  a  nice  time,  and  we  will 
look  in  before  you  come  home." 

Half  an  hour  later,  Beatrice  was  the  centre 
of  a  crowd  of  courtiers,  and  bearing  herself 
right  royally  among  them.  Not  even  the  ri 
vals,  who  enviously  watched  the  assumed  ease 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


49 


and  grace  of  her  every  movement,  and  noted 
the  manner  so  nicely  balanced  between  dig 
nity  and  archness,  could  find  a  flaw  in  either, 
or  could  suggest  a  possible  improvement  in 
person,  dress,  or  bearing ;  nor  could  the  most 
critical  observer  detect  in  the  style  of  this,  the 
latest  "  queen  of  society,"  any  trace  of  the 
country  breeding  she  never  thought  of  con 
cealing,  unless  in  a  certain  freshness  and  vi 
tality  always  remarked,  and  always  celebrated 
by  Miss  Wansted's  admirers.  She  was  not 
without  her  weapons  either,  and  could  defend 
herself  upon  occasion,  as  when  Laforet,  lead 
ing  her  to  the  head  of  a  set  of  Lancers,  mur 
mured  reproachfully : 

"  My  poor  flowers  were  not  worthy  to  be 
carried  to-night,  then  ?" 

"  Ah !  Mr.  Laforet,  I  have  a  quarrel  with 
you  upon  that  subject !  Which  of  my  ill- 
wishers,  what  woman  selected  that  bouquet 
for  yon  to  send  me  ?" 

"  Ill-wishers  !  Woman  !  I  beg  your  par 
don  for  echoing  your  words,  and  also  for  my 
stupidity,  but  what  do  you  mean  ?"  asked  the 
unfortunate  Laforet  in  great  bewilderment. 

"  Why  they  were  so  magnificent,  so  rich 
and  varied  in  their  colors,  so  conspicuous  in 
their  brilliancy,  so  altogether  admirable  in 
every  way,  that  they  would  have  utterly  anni 
hilated  the  wearer.  She  would  have  become 
merely  the  woman  carrying  that  bouquet. 
Now,  what  but  feminine  malice  could  have 
suggested  such  a  mode  of  smothering  me  in 
honey?  Confess,  Mr.  Laforet  —  tell  me  her 
name." 

And  Beatrice,  flashing  a  bewildering  smile 
into  her  partner's  face,  turned  to  balance  at 
the  corner  with  Rein,  the  artist,  who  seized 
the  occasion  to  murmur : 

"  If  you  would  only  sit  to  me  in  that 
dress  !" 

"  I  will  lend  it  you  with  the  greatest  pleas 
ure,"  replied  Beatrice,  returning  to  her  part 
ner,  who  began : 

"  No  ;  but  really  were  the  flowers  so  unbe 
coming?" 

"  The  flowers  were  magnificent.  It  was  I 
who  was  not  equal  to  the  occasion.  Forward 
with  me,  please." 

And  Mr.  Laforet  finished  the  Lancers  in  a 
state  of  mind  equally  balanced  between  doubt 
and  delight. 

"But  if  I   might   ask,  who   gave   you  th 
flowers  you  carry?"  inquired  he,  escorting  his 
partner  to  her  seat. 
4 


"  It  would  be  an  odd  question  for  you  to  ask. 
or  me  to  answer ;  but  if  you  should  ask,  and  I 
should  be  indulgent  enough  to  answer,  I  could 
only  say  what  was  said  to  me  :  they  are  from 
a  friend." 

"  That  means  any  one  among  a  hundred 
men,"  said  Laforet. 

"  One  among  a  hundred  ?  One  among  a 
thousand,  if  he  were  really  a  friend,"  returned 
Beatrice  with  a  smile  more  bitter  than  gay, 
and  a  little  gesture  of  dismissal. 

"  Miss  Wansted,  allow  me  to  present  Mr 
Monckton,  a  gentleman  who  can  give  you  the 
latest  news  of  the  anthropophagi  and  King 
Theodore,"  said  the  hostess,  pausing  with  a 
gentleman  in  front  of  Beatrice. 

Murmuring  the  conventional  answer,  she 
looked  up,  and  met  the  regards  of  a  pair  of 
alert  brown  eyes  set  in  a  thin  and  deeply 
bronzed  face,  whose  claim  to  beauty  was  one 
to  be  considered  before  determining. 

"  May. I  sit  down,  Miss  Wansted  ?  I  am  so 
accustomed  to  making  myself  comfortable 
whenever  I  have  the  opportunity." 

"  Certainly  ;  although,  from  what  Mrs. Wes 
ley  says  of  the  direction  of  your  travels,  I 
should  not  imagine  comfort  to  have  been  your 
principal  object,"  said  Beatrice,  quietly  re 
moving  her  skirts  from  an  ottoman  beside  her 
chair. 

"  No.  But  like  most  of  the  good  things  I 
have  obtained  in  this  world,  it  has  often  come 
to  me  while  I  was  looking  for  something 
else.  For  instance,  I  came  here  to-night  be 
cause  I  thought  I  must,  and  —  I  have  been 
introduced  to  you." 

"  I  thought  persons  who  travelled  learned 
new  things,"  remarked  Beatrice  very  sweetly. 

Mr.  Monckton  colored  a  little,  then  laughed. 

"  Really,  Miss  Wansted,  I  know  it  is  rude  to 
be  personal,  but  you  must  allow  me  to  say  I 
had  no  idea  that  you  would  do  that  sort  of 
thing,"  said  he. 

"  What  sort  of  thing,  please  ?" 

"  The  sarcastic  and  humiliating  sort  of 
thing  —  the  discovering  so  quickly,  and  tell 
ing  me  so  frankly,  that  I  was  talking  like  a 
fool." 

"  Not  at  all.  I  only  meant  that  you  talked 
as  if  you  supposed  me  one." 

"  I  shall  never  again  suppose  you  one." 

"  Again  ?"  repeated  Beatrice,  with  a  smile  of 
quiet  malice. 

"  Now,  really,  Miss  Wansted  !  But  I  have 
been  so  long  out  of  society — the  society  of 


50 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


ladies,  at  least — that  a  good  deal  must  be  par 
doned.  I  have  forgotten  the  usages  of  the 
beau  monde,  you  perceive." 

"  And  I  have  never  learned  them  ;  so  let  us 
lay  aside  all  thought  of  them,  and  talk  like 
human  beings  uncorrupted  by  this  beau  monde 
of  which  you  speak.  Have  you  really  trav 
elled  in  the  East  ?" 

"  From  Alexandria  to  the  Vale  of  Kash- 
meer,  and  from  Jaffa  to  Jerusalem  and  the 
plains  of  Palestine,"  said  Monckton,  smiling 
frankly. 

"  And  will  you  please  tell  me  all  about  it  ?" 

"All!" 

"  Oh !  yes  ;  for  where  could  you  stop  when 
once  you  had  begun  fi" 

"  And  will  you  give  me  time  to  tell  all  V 

"  Begin,  please." 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  then,  while  we  watch 
these  dancers  and  listen  to  this  charming 
music,  of  a  nautch  that  I  attended  in  Delhi, 
when  the  eldest  son  of  Rajah  Ahmed  Defter 
Singh  was  married  to  the  daughter  of  the 
Baboo  Ali  Raj  Malimoo  ?" 

"  Pray  do.  But  remember,  please,  that  I 
have  read  the  Arabian  Nights  and  also  the 
Tliousand  and  One  Days." 

"  I  will  quote  neither,  but  tell  you  the  truth 
pur  et  simple.  I  was  in  Delhi " 

"  Miss  Wansted,  I  believe  I  have  your 
promise  for  this  quadrille,"  said  a  young  gen 
tleman,  bowing  before  the  lady,  whose  smile 
of  acquiescence  was,  to  say  the  least,  a  little 
forced. 

"  It  is  the  German,  and  will  last  all  the 
evening,"  said  she  apologetically,  as  she  rose 
from  Mr.  Monckton's  side. 

"  And  my  poor  nautch  story  ?  May  I  come 
and  tell  it  you  to-morrow  '>." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Beatrice,  a  little  doubt 
fully. 

"  I  think  my  old  friend,  Mr.  Barstow,  will 
not  close  his  door  in  my  face.  Au  revoir," 
said  Monckton  smiling. 

And  Beatrice,  her  doubt  resolved,  answered 
gayly : 

"Au  reooir  then." 


CHAPTER  XIX. 
THE    BEDOUIN  IN  THE   DESERT. 

WITH  the  morrow  came  Mr.  Monckton,  and 
Beatrice,  somewhat  to  her  own  surprise,  found 
herself  interested  in  his  coming. 

"  You  will  see  him,  June,  will  you  not  ? 


asked  she  of  Mrs.  Charlton,  \vlio  was  doing 
Sultana  in  a  cashmere  wrapper,  with  her  slip 
pered  feet  curled  under  her,  upon  the  lounge 
in  Miss  Wansted's  sitting-room. 

"  Must  I  ?   For  whom  did  he  ask,  Thomas  ?" 

"  He  is  with  Mr.  Barstow,  ma'am,  and  Mr. 
Barstow  told  me  to  speak  to  the  ladies." 

"  Oh !  well ;  if  your  uncle  is  down-stairs, 
there  is  no  need  of  my  going — and  really  I  am 
so  comfortable.  Tell  him,  please,  Trix,  that  I 
am  used  up  with  last  evening's  gayeties — that 
is,  if  he  inquires."  And  Mrs.  Charlton,  with  a 
luxurious  sigh,  sank  back  among  her  cushions, 
as  Beatrice,  with  a  little  smile  upon  her  lips, 
went  down-stairs,  and  glided  into  the  drawing- 
room  with  the  stately  and  yet  graceful  motion 
characteristic  of  her. 

Monckton  stood,  hat  and  cane  in  hand, 
looking  at  a  picture  upon  the  wall.  It  waa 
an  odd  bit,  the  freak  of  some  dreamy  artist, 
starving  with  cold  in  his  barren  garret,  per 
haps,  and  mocking  the  sufferings  of  his  body 
with  the  illimitable  fancies  of  his  soul.  At 
least,  that  was  the  theory  Beatrice  had  framed 
about  this  sketch,  and  for  the  sake  of  the 
theory,  had  asked  her  uncle  to  buy  it. 

An  immense  level  plain — Sahara  perhaps — 
stretching  away  in  such  admirable  perspective 
that  the  eye  returned  from  seeking  the  van 
ishing-point,  weary  and  strained — a  coppery 
sky  arching  the  yellow  sand,  with  no  cloud 
upon  it  except  the  faint  white  wreaths  so  ex 
pressive  of  intense  heat — the  last  faint  breath 
of  earth,  as  they  seem,  sent  up  in  an  expiring 
prayer  to  heaven. 

In  the  midst  of  this  plain,  a  fallen  camel, 
lying  with  outstretched  neck,  gaping  mouth, 
and  staring  eyeballs,  the  limbs  slightly  con 
vulsed  in  dying  agony,  and  standing  upon  his 
prostrate  body  a  solitary  Arab,  shading  his 
eyes  with  his  hand,  and  searching  the  horizon 
for  the  help  that  we  read  in  the  whole  tone  of 
the  piece  was  not  to  come. 
.-  One  long  shadow  of  man  and  beast  stretched 
far  toward  the  West,  and  faded  into  the  sands 
by  fine  gradations  of  color. 

That  was  all  ;  and  yet  Miss  Wansted  had 
gazed  for  an  hour  at  that  picture,  and  turned 
away  unsatisfied. 

"  Good-morning,  Mr.  Monckton,"  said  she 
now.  "  Do  you  remember  the  scene  ?" 

"  I  beg  your  pardon — good-morning,"  said 
the  traveller,  cordially  extending  his  hand. 
"  Yes,  I  remember  the  scene." 

"  You  remember  it  1" 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


51 


"  Yes,  or  rather  I  remember  as  much  of  it 
as  human  eye  ever  saw." 

"  Oh  !  what  do  you  mean  ?  Pray  tell  me  all 
about  it." 

And  Beatrice,  with  a  look  of  excited  inter 
est,  rare  enough  upon  her  statuesque  features, 
Bank  into  a  seat,  and  motioned  her  guest  to 
another,  her  eyes  continuing  the  eager  inquiry 
of  her  lips. 

Monckton  smiled,  well  pleased. 

"  It  is  a  fortunate  chance  for  me  to  have  no 
ticed  this  picture  this  morning,  since  it  gives 
.  me  an  opportunity  of  gratifying  you,"  said  he, 
BO  simply  that  the  words  rang  true,  and  not 
with  the  hollow  tinkle  of  flattery. 

"  It  was  three  years  ago,"  pursued  the  travel 
ler,  "that  I,  journeying  from  Cairo  to  Damas 
cus,  chose  to  pursue  the  old  desert  route,  and 
in  the  old  desert  fashion  ;  for  to  my  mind,  this 
invasion  of  the  Orient  by  steam,  and  this  erec 
tion  of  railway-stations  and  free-lunch  bootlis 
within  the  shadow  of  the  Pyramids,  and 
under  the  very  eyes  of  the  Sphinx,  is  a  sacri 
lege  likely  enough  to  bring  back  old  Cheops 
to  avenge  it ;  and  one  looks  to  see  each  grain 
of  sand  become  a  dusky  warrior,  armed  with 
bow.  and  spear,  and  hungry  for  the  slaughter. 
At  any  rate,  I  preferred  the  camels  and  the 
caravan,  and  so  did  Floyd,  a  young  artist 
whom  I  found  hanging  about  Cairo,  full  of 
fancies  and  inspiration,  and  singularly  empty 
of  every  thing  else.  Finding  that  he  was 
eager  to  get  to  Damascus,  and  utterly  devoid 
of  means,  I  offered  him  an  opportunity,  and  we 
set  out." 

"  How  grateful  he  must  have  felt  to  you  !" 
said  Beatrice  softly,  while  her  shining  eyes 
spoke  sweet  applause  of  the  generous  deed. 
But  Monckton  laughed. 

"  Grateful !"  echoed  he.  "  Pardon  me,  Miss 
Wansted,  but  that  remark  speaks  better  for 
your  heart  than  your  experience.  No  man  is 
grateful  for  having  what  he  fancies  his  rights 
offered  him  as  an  alms,  and  I  saved  myself 
from  Floyd's  enmity  only  by  asking  him  to 
come  along  as  a  protector  and  reliable  com 
panion,  for  I  had  no  white  man  with  me  then. 
As  for  the  camels  and  provisions,  they  were 
already  engaged,  and  his  presence  made  no 
difference,  which  view  of  the  case  he  oblig 
ingly  accepted,  and  consented  to  oblige  me. 

"  Four  days  out  of  Cairo,  Floyd  and  I,  in 
dulging  in  an  eccentric  tour  around  an  oasis, 
missed  our  company  just  at  nightfall,  and 
were  forced  to  encamp  upon  the  sand.  Early 


in  the  morning,  we  remounted,  and  j  ust  before 
falling  in  with  our  men,  we  came  upon  that 
scene — with  a  difference,  for  the  poor  Bedouin 
lay  with  his  head  upon  his  camel's  neck,  as 
dead  as  he.  The  camel,  we  noticed,  had  been 
wounded  in  the  leg,  probably  in  some  desert 
fray,  and  had  been  unable  to  bring  his  master 
to  the  journey's  end  before  both  were  ex 
hausted  and  fell,  almost  within  sight  of  har 
bor.  Floyd  seemed  very  much  impressed,  and 
lingered  longer  than  I  liked,  examining  now 
the  group,  now  the  surrounding  scene,  with  a 
dreamy  look  in  his  eyes  that  I  was  sure  meant 
picture.  At  last  he  got  out  his  sketch-book, 
and  in  half  a  dozen  strokes  caught  the  spirit 
of  the  whole  thing.  Just  then  our  fellows  came 
up  ;  they  had  missed  us  in  the  dark,  and  were 
now  retracing  their  steps  to  look  for  us. 
They  made  very  light  of  their  fallen  country 
man,  and  even  refused  to  bury  him,  saying — 
as  I  suppose  truly — that  if  they  did  take  the 
trouble,  the  wind  or  the  jackals  would  undo 
their  labor  before  another  day.  So  we  rode 
on,  and  left  them  as  they  lay. 

"  A  year  later,  a  package  reached  me  in 
Rome  charged  with  so  much  expressage  that 
it  nearly  ruined  me.  Within  was  this  picture, 
and  a  note  from  Floyd,  who  said  that  he  sent  it 
me  as  a  remembrance  of  our  pleasant  journey 
across  the  desert.  Of  course  I  knew  that  it 
meant  camel  hire  and  hard  biscuit ;  but  if  it 
soothed  his  feelings  to  put  it  in  the  way  ha 
did,  it  could  not  injure  mine  to  accept  both  his 
picture  and  his  definition  of  its  meaning,  as  I 
did.  Having  no  provision  for  picture  trans 
portation,  however,  I  gave  it  soon  after  to  a 
man  who  seemed  to  fancy  it  excessively,  but 
who  has,  it  appears,  parted  with  it  for  filthy 
lucre.  Do  you  know  where  Mr.  Barstow 
found  it  ?" 

"  At  an  auction  sale  of  paintings  in  New- 
York.  He  asked  Mrs.  Charlton  and  me  to  ga 
and  look  at  them,  and  mark  in  the  catalogue 
what  we  should  like.  I  selected  this,"  said 
Beatrice,  looking  with  a  new  interest  at  the 
desert  scene. 

"  But,"  resumed  she  presently,  feeling  a 
little  nervously  that  Mr.  Monckton's  eyes  were 
as  earnestly  fixed  upon  her  face  as  hers  upon 
the  picture — "  but  I  wonder  that  you  did  not 
keep  it  for  yourself." 

"  What  should  I  do  with  it?" 

"  Bring  it  home  with  you  when  you  came." 

Monckton  smiled  sadly. 

"  Misa  Wansted,  you  speak  in  a  language  I 


THE   SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


cannot  understand.  I  have  no  home.  I  have 
never  known  one.  My  childhood  was  passed 
at  school,  my  youth  at  foreign  colleges  ;  my 
manhood  has  been  as  nomadic  and  as  igno 
rant  of  the  sweet  influences  of  home  as  that  of 
the  Bedouin,  whose  death  may  but  foreshadow 
mine." 

And  as  the  traveller  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the 
picture,  a  softness  rarely  seen  in  those  piercing 
orbs  crossed  their  depths,  and  lent  a  strange 
charm  to  the  thin,  brown  face  most  persons 
found  so  hard  and  unemotional. 

The  next  moment  he  turned  sharply,  and 
met  the  full,  pitying  gaze  of  those  other  eyes 
whose  hazel  beauty  he  had  already  con 
fessed. 

"  You  are  very  good,  Miss  Wansted,"  said 
he,  answering  the  unspoken  sympathy  of  that 
look.  "  But  I  should  beg  your  pardon  for  my 
bad  taste.  This  is  but  another  proof  of  what 
I  told  you  last  night,  that  I  have  become  a 
mere  uncivilized  savage,  unfit  for  society,  and 
unworthy  of  the  patience  you  have  vouch 
safed  me." 

"  Last  night  I  proposed  that  we  should  drop 
the  beau  monde,  and  talk  like  simply  a  man 
and  woman,"  said  Beatrice  softly. 

Monckton  shot  a  keen  glance  at  her  face. 
He  found  it  slightly  flushed,  smiling,  and 
guileless  as  water,  and  he  leaned  toward  it 
eagerly. 

"  Miss  Wansted  you  tempt  me  strangely," 
said  he. 

"  In  what  manner  ?"  asked  Beatrice,  smiling 
still. 

"  To  believe  in  you,  to  feel  again  that  human 
faith  and  interest  which  I  had  thought  dried 
out  of  my  life  forever.  Miss  Wansted,  if  this 
is  folly,  if  it  is  unconventional,  inadmissible 
perhaps,  you  should  blame  yourself.  You 
bid  me  with  those  candid  eyes  to  be  natural, 
to  speak  from  the  heart  out,  and  I  speak  as  I 
have  not  spoken  for  years,  as  I  thought  never 
to  speak  again.  Do  you  pardon  me  ?" 

"  For  what  ?  Obedience  ?"  asked  Beatrice, 
the  subtle  smile  of  power  in  her  eyes. 

"  Yes,"  said  Monckton,  steadily  regarding 
her.  "  I  have  been  for  many  years  out  of  the 
artificial  and  hollow  world  we  call  society, 
but  I  do  not  think  I  have  lost  the  power  of 
discriminating  between  a  fresh  and  ardent 
nature,  as  yet  uncorrupted  and  untrammelled 
by  that  world,  and — a  finished  coquette." 

"  Is  it  so  difficult  to  distinguish  between  the 
two  ?"  asked  Beatrice. 

"More  difficult  than  to  determine  between 


a  gem  of  the  Palais  Royal  and  a  genuine 
diamond,"  said  Monckton.  "  And  yet  I  am 
sure  that  I  am  not  mistaken." 

"  And  if  you  are  not '("  asked  Beatrice. 

"  If  I  am  not,  I  should  dare  to  hope  that 
I  might  once  more  possess  a  friend  ;  that 
sympathy  and  confidence  and  the  honest 
speech  of  heart  to  heart  were  not  yet  dead- 
letter  phrases  for  me,  and  that  one  spot  of 
earth,  one  human  being,  might  become  to  me 
of  more  importance  than  another.  Miss  Wan 
sted,  it  is  for  you  to  rebuke,  if  you  will,  this 
last  and  wildest  folly  of  a  life  outwardly  pros 
perous,  and  inwardly  blank  and  desolate  as 
that  Sahara.  Do  you  find  my  presumption 
something  too  monstrous  for  reproof?" 

"  Why  should  I,  Mr.  Monckton  ?  I  urged 
you  to  throw  aside  the  idea  of  etiquette,  and 
speak  to  me  as  honest  man  to  honest  woman. 
You  have  done  so,  and  I  thank  you.  After 
that,  if  you  find  my  sympathy  in  the  homeless 
and  friendless  life  you  describe  of  any  value, 
it  is  yours  ;  if  you  care  to  try  whether  that 
sympathy  and  our  mutual  liking  can  become 
a  friendship,  I  will  help  you  ;  and  if  it  is  so,  you 
will  be  no  better  pleased  than  I,  for  I  too  am 
lonely,  and  sometimes  heart-sick,  and  I  too 
need  a  friend." 

Her  voice  softened  and  faltered  upon  the 
last  words,  and  Monckton  looked  at  her  as 
shrewdly  and  more  kindly  than  JuanitaCharl- 
ton  had  done  in  first  espying  her  heart- wound. 
Past  masters  both,  in  this  world's  lore,  they 
had  both  found  it  quickly  enough,  and  viewed 
it,  the  one  with  the  indulgent  and  delicate 
pity  of  man  for  woman,  the  other  with  the 
scornful  and  inquisitive  pity  of  woman  for 
woman. 

"  Then,  Heaven  helping  us,  we  two  are  to 
become  friends,"  said  Monckton,  rising  and 
offering  his  hand. 

"Yes,"  replied  Beatrice,  laying  hers  in  it 
with  a  confiding  smile. 


CHAPTER  XX. 
A    DINNER-PARTY. 

Mn.  CHAPPELLEFORD  was  not  in  a  good- 
humor — in  fact,  he  was  in  a  very  bad  one, 
and  developed  it  in  so  many  and  such  decided 
forms,  that  even  his  patient  friend,  Israel 
Barstow,  was  nearly  out  of  patience  with  him, 
and  Miss  Wansted  entirely  so.  As  for  Mr. 
Monckton,  who  made  the  fifth  at  Mr.  Barstow'a 
little  dinner-party,  he  received  the  attacks, 
covert  or  open,  of  his  fellow-guest  much  as  he 


THE  SHADOW  OP  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


would  have  done  those  of  an  ill-conditioned 
family  dog — as  something  to  be  courteously 
tolerated  on  account  of  its  proprietors,  so 
long  as  it  remained  in  their  presence ;  but  with 
a  reserved  right  upon  the  part  of  the  sufferer 
in  favor  of  vengeance  at  the  earliest  possible 
opportunity. 

Mrs.  Charlton,  the  remaining  guest,  looked 
on  with  an  air  of  impartial  and  cynical  amuse 
ment  at  licr  uncle's  ill-humor,  her  host's  un 
easiness,  Beatrice's  indignation,  and  Mr. 
Monckton's  patient  endurance. 

"  So,  Livingstone  has  turned  up  all  right," 
said  Mr.  Barstow,  casting  about  for  a  remark 
adapted  to  the  tone  of  his  company,  and  not 
likely  to  provoke  discussion. 

"  Who's  Livingstone  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Chap- 
pelleford,  in  a  tone  of  contemptuous  indiffer 
ence. 

"Livingstone!  why  —  ah  —  why,  of  course 
you  know  whom  I  mean,"  stammered  the  host, 
already  doubtful  of  his  own  authenticity. 

"  There  was  a  person  of  that  name  who 
went  peddling  beads  and  calico-aprons  among 
the  negroes — do  you  refer  to  him  ?" 

"  Why,  he's  the  great  African  traveller  of 
course — every  one  acknowledges  that,  don't 
they  ?"  insisted  Mr.  Barstow,  growing  a  little 
warm. 

"  Great !  Well,  I  don't  know.  Little  men 
might  find  him  so,"  replied  the  cynic. 

"  The  title  of  the  great  African  traveller 
should,  I  think,  be  given  rather  to  Speke,  for 
he  has  solved  the  question  of  centuries  as  to 
the  source  of  the  Nile,  and  penetrated  farther 
than  any  man  before  him  into  the  interior  of 
Africa,"  said  Monckton  quietly. 

"  Solved  the  question  of  the  source  of  the 
Nile ''.  So  have  a  dozen  adventurers  before 
him,  and  so  will  a  dozen  after,  Mr.  Monckton. 
Who  is  to  say  that  this  Lake  Victoria  N'yanza 
is  more  stationary  or  reliable  than  other  Afri 
can  water-holes  and  rain-puddles  ?  The  Nile 
may  rise  there  to-day  and  somewhere  else  to 
morrow,  and  probably  does,  even  granting — 
which  is  a  great  deal  to  grant — that  this  man — 
Paddleford,  Livingstone,  Speke — whatever  his 
name  is — has  been  there  at  all,  or  knows  any 
thing  about  the  matter.  As  for  penetrating 
into  the  interior  of  Africa,  what  does  that 
amount  to  ?  The  negroes  away  from  the 
coast  wear  bones  in  their  noses,  and  those  on 
the  coast  wear  oyster-shells  ;  the  first  breech 
themselves  with  cocoa-cloth,  and  the  last  with 
kelp  leaves:  what  difference  does  it  make  to 
us  which  is  which  ?  Of  course  one  sees  why 


this  insatiate  trader  risked  his  life,  and  those 
of  the  fools  who  accompanied  him,  by  his  ex 
plorations.  The  remoter  the  savage  from  civ 
ilization,  the  more  value  he  attaches  to  beads, 
and  the  more  gold-dust  he  is  willing  to  pay 
for  them." 

"  But  then  it  makes  us,  who  are  so  civilized, 
and  none  of  us  at  all  like  savages,  appreciate 
our  own  advantages  so  much  the  more  highly, 
to  hear  of  these  poor,  ignorant,  rude  creatures, 
who  know  no  better  than  to  talk  and  behave 
as  they  do,"  said  Beatrice,  whose  burning 
cheeks  and  sparkling  eyes  strongly  belied  the 
unconscious  and  nai've  tone  she  attempted. 

Mr  Chappelleford  shot  a  keen  glance  in  her 
direction  from  beneath  the  gray  pent-house 
of  his  brows. 

"  I  read  a  pretty  story  that  would  please  a 
young  lady,  I  should  think,  in  one  of  these 
African  books,"  said  he.  "  The  story  of  a  male 
humming-bird  attacked  and  nearly  demol 
ished  by  a  bigger  bird,  when,  just  as  the  hum 
ming-bird  was  about  to  succumb,  his  mate, 
who  had  watched  the  contest  from  her  nest, 
dashed  down  into  the  face  and  eyes  of  the  in 
truder  and  beat  him  off— -by  sheer  audacity,  as 
you  may  say." 

"  Audacious  courage  may  be  admired,  but 

audacious  insolence "  began  Beatrice  ;  but 

her  trembling  voice  was  covered  by  Mrs. 
Cliarlton's  full,  round  tones : 

"  That  reminds  me,  Mr.  Barstow,  of  the 
loveliest  thing  I  ever  saw.  It  was  a  hum 
ming-bird  worn  as  an  ornament  to  the  hair 
by  a  lady  at  Mrs.  Lee's,  last  night,  and  com 
posed  entirely  of  gems.  You  never  saw  any 
thing  so  magnificent,  and  I  resolved  to  tell 
you  of  it,  because  you  admire  jewels  so  much." 

"  Yes,  I  do,  and  I  should  like,  of  all  things, 
to  see  this  one.  Do  you  suppose  another  is  to 
be  found  for  sale  ?" 

"  Oh !  dear,  no.  This  was  Parisian,  and,  I 
presume,  made  to  order.  It  must  have  cost  a 
fortune,"  said  Mrs.  Charlton,  glancing  at  the 
faces  of  her  companions,  and  wondering 
whether  the  diversion  had  been  effectual. 

"  I  wish  you  would  write  as  good  a  descrip 
tion  of  it  as  possible  for  me,"  said  Mr.  Bar- 
stow  thoughtfully. 

Mrs.  Charlton  laughed. 

"  Oh !  I  could  not  let  Beatrice  wear  it  if  you 
had  it  made,"  said  she  ;  "  it  would  be  entirely 
inharmonious  with  her  style  ;  and,  you  know, 
she  is  in  my  hands  this  year." 

"vEsop  has  a  fable  of  a  fox,  who  took  charge 
of  a  farmer's  poultry-yard,  and,  strange  to  say, 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


found  his  own  advantage  in  tlie  position,"  re 
marked  Mr.  Chappelleiord. 

Juanita  softly  laughed  and  turned  to 
Monckton. 

"  You  must  have  seen  some  splendid  jewels 
in  the  East,  Mr.  Monckton,"  said  she,  inquir 
ingly- 

"Yes  ;  I  was  just  thinking  of  a  set  of  tur 
quoise  shown  me  at  Delhi.  They  would  have 
suited  Miss  Wansted  admirably." 

"  I  have  seen  turquoise  from  Delhi  of  re 
markable  beauty.  How  were  these  set?" 
asked  Mrs.  Charlton. 

"  Very  elegantly  with  pearls.  There  was  a 
crescent  for  the  hair,  a  chain  of  stars  for  the 
throat,  and  bracelets  with  pendent  ornaments 
of  gold  in  various  Oriental  devices.  They 
were  very  handsome." 

"I  should  think  so.  Now,  Mr.  Barstow, 
•where  is  your  express  for  Delhi  1"  asked 
Juanita,  with  a  little  laugh. 

"  I  wish  I  knew  how  to  send  there,  and  I 
would  do  it  in  a  minute,"  said  the  merchant, 
smiling  meaningly  upon  his  niece,  whose 
cheeks  were  slowly  regaining  their  natural 
color. 

Mr.  Monckton  unclosed  his  lips  as  if  to 
speak,  shut  them  again,  and  smiled  a  little. 
Mrs.  Charlton,  whose  neighbor  he  was,  also 
smiled  and  whispered : 

"  You  have  them,  and  will  offer  them  to " 

"My  fiancee"  murmured  the  traveller  in 
reply  ;  and  Juanita  looked  thoughtfully  at 
Beatrice. 

"  The  jewels  of  India  are  no  more  than  tra 
ditions  now,"  said  Chappelleford  dreamily. 
"  When  one  reads  of  Shah  Jehan's  peacock 
throne,  six  feet  long  and  four  broad,  one  solid 
block  of  gold,  surmounted  by  a  canopy  sup 
ported  upon  twelve  pillars,  all  of  the  same 
metal,  and  all  inlaid  with  the  most  marvellous 
of  Oriental  gems,  while  at  the  hack  stood  the 
golden  peacocks,  their  fans  blazing  with 
jewels  worth  a  monarch's  ransom,  and  re 
members  that  this  was  but  an  item — an  ad 
junct  of  the  Mogul's  imperial  state — then  we 
look  with  somewhat  of  impatience  upon  the 
trinkets  of  the  modern  Chandee  Chok." 

"  Is  that  story  about  the  throne  literally 
true,  Chappelleford '("  asked  Mr.  Barstow 
breathlessly. 

"  It  is  as  literal  as  Israel  Barstow  himself," 
replied  the  philosopher. 

"  And  what  might  such  a  thing  be  worth  in 
money  ?  Do  any  of  your  books  tell  that  ?'' 


"  Oh  !  yes.  It  was  seen  by  one  Tavernier, 
a  jeweller,  who  visited  Delhi,  in  the  way  of 
trade,  and  who  estimated  it  professionally  at  a 
sum  about  equivalent  to  thirty  millions  of  dol 
lars.  It  was  made  by  a  Frenchman,  too,  one 
Austin,  of  Bordeaux — a  fellow  who,  obliged  to 
leave  his  country  to  save  his  neck,  took  refuge 
in  the  domain  of  the  Grand  Mogul,  and  turned 
his  talents  to  account  by  decorating  the  im 
perial  palace.  The  ceiling  of  the  throne-cham 
ber,  also  his  handiwork,  was  of  gold  and  sil 
ver  filagree,  and  round  the  cornice  ran  an  in 
scription,  in  golden  letters,  to  this  effect : 

'  If  there  be  a  paradise  on  earth,  it  is  here — it  is  here  I' 

That  was  what  Shah  Jehan  had  to  say  for 
himself,  and  he  had  hardly  seen  the  golden  lie 
put  in  its  place,  when  his  four  rebellious  sons 
clapped  him  into  prison  in  the  fortress  of  Agra, 
and  kept  him  there  until  he  died.  It  took 
ten  years  to  kill  him,  however,  and  he  kept 
some  of  his  best  jewels  until  the  last.  Au- 
rungzebe,  the  third  son  and  successful  usurp 
er,  used  to  send  polite  messages  to  his 
papa,  inquiring  the  state  of  his  health,  and 
asking  if  he  had  not  better  give  up  the  care 
and  responsibility  of  those  jewels  to  his  affec 
tionate  son  and  successor.  Old  Shah  Jehan 
answered  in  the  same  strain  until  he  got 
tired  of  it,  and  then  he  sent  word  that  he 
should  never  give  up  the  jewels  while  he 
lived,  and  that  if  any  attempt  was  made  to 
take  them  by  force,  he  would  pound  them  to 
atoms  with  a  big  hammer,  which  he  kept  in 
readiness.  After  that  they  let  him  alone." 

"  But  what  became  of  the  peacock  throne, 
and  where  is  it  now?"  asked  Mr.  Barstow. 

"  About  a  century  after  Shah  Jehan's  depo 
sition,"  said  the  scholar,  leaning  his  elbow 
upon  the  table,  and  shading  his  eyes  with  his 
hand,  "  Nadur  Shah,  a  Persian  soldier-king, 
invaded  India,  conquered  Delhi,  and  murdered 
Mohummud  Shah,  the  emperor  of  the  day,  in 
spite  of  the  most  abject  submission  and  the 
most  piteous  entreaties  on  the  part  of  that  un 
happy  prince.  Then  he  gave  up  the  city  of 
Delhi  to  his  soldiers  for  rapine  and  pillage,  with 
out  restraint  ,  and  the  historians  say  that  the 
aqueduct  through  the  middle  of  the  Chandeo 
Chok,  or  principal  street  of  Delhi,  ran  red 
with  the  blood  of  her  slaughtered  inhabitants. 
Six  weeks  later,  Nadur  Shah  returned  home, 
carrying  with  him  the  peacock  throne,  all  the 
imperial  jewels,  and  a  countless  treasure  be 
side.  That  was  the  death-blow  of  the  Mogul 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


55 


empire ;  and  next  came  the  English,  ready, 
ghoul-like,  to  devour  the  poor  remains  of  the 
dead  sovereignty." 

"  Was  it  not  Shah  Jehan  who  built  the  Taj 
at  Agra,  of  which  you  were  telling  me  the 
other  night?"  asked  Beatrice,  over  whose 
mood  a  story  exercised  as  inolliiying  an  influ 
ence  as  over  that  of  Schariar  himself ;  nor  was 
this  circumstance  unknown  to  Mr.  Chappelle- 
ford,  who  now  answered  courteously : 

"  Yes,  in  honor  of  h^s  wife,  Moomtaz-ee-Ma- 
hal,  the  ornament  of  the  Harem,  and  niece 
of  the  more  celebrated  Noor-Mahal,  wife  of 
Jehan-geer." 

"  I  saw  the  Taj  while  I  was  in  India,  and  it 
is  really  a  marvellous  structure.  Shah  Jehan 
himself  is  buried  there,  they  tell  me,"  said 
Monckton. 

"  Yes  ;  after  he  was  dead,  his  son  did  not 
know  what  else  to  do  with  him,  and  so  tucked 
him  in  beside  poor  Moomtaz,  who  thought,  I 
suppose,  that  she  might  at  least  have  her 
tomb  to  herself ;  but  Aurungzebe  was  of  an 
economical  turn  of  mind,  in  all  but  his*  own 
pleasures,  and  by  making  room  for  papa  in 
the  Taj,  he  gave  him  a  magnificent  mauso 
leum,  without  its  costing  the  reigning  sover 
eign  a  single  rupee.  Shrewd  fellow,  Aurung 
zebe,"  said  the  philosopher,  obeying  the  signal 
to  rise  from  the  table. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 
T  II  E    AMULET. 

"  STEP  into  the  library  a  moment,  if  you 
please,  Miss  Wansted,"  said  Mr.  Chappelle- 
ford,  as,  dinner  over,  the  guests  went  up-stairs 
together.  ''I  brought  that  proof-engraving 
of  which  I  was  speaking  to  show  to  you,  and 
left  it  in  here.  Will  you  look  at  it  ?" 

"  Certainly,"  said  Beatrice,  still  a  little 
coldly.  "  But  why  not  take  it  into  the  draw 
ing-room,  and  let  our  friends  see  it  also?" 

"  Because  I  brought  it  for  you,  and  not  for 
your  '  friends,'  as  you  call  them." 

"  I  said  our  friends,"  replied  Beatrice 
smiling. 

"None  for  me,  thank  you,"  replied  the 
philosopher.  "  It  is  some  years  since  I  in 
dulged  in  that  delusion." 

"What— of  friendship?" 

"  Exactly.  It  is  one  of  the  dreams  of  youth, 
and  as  impossible  to  retain  as  your  milk-teeth. 
There,  is  not  that  a  fine  head  ?" 


"  Admirable.     But  about  friendship — I  wish 
you  would  not  say  such  things,"  said  Beatrice, 
only  glancing  at  the  engraving,  and  fixing  her 
wistful  eyes  upon  the  shrewd,  sad  face  of  the    - 
philosopher. 

"  Why  do  you  wish  so  ?" 

"  Because  you  know  so  much,  and  are  so 
often  right  when  we  differ,  that  it  terrifies  me 
to  have  you  assert  what  I  cannot  bear  to  be 
lieve  true." 

"  Then  you  have  a  particular  fancy  for  this 
particular  delusion  ?"  asked  Mr.  Chappelle- 
ford,  not  unkindly. 

"  Fancy  !  I  consider  friendship  one  of  the 
holiest  and  sweetest  of  realities,  and  it  is  be 
cause  I  do  not  wish  to  have  my  faith  dis 
turbed  that  I  dread  to  hear  you  speak 
of  it." 

"  Like  the  man  falling  asleep  at  low-water 
mark,  who  begs  his  companions  not  to  disturb 
his  nap." 

"  But  even  if  friendship  is  a  dream,  it  will 
not  hurt  me  to  believe  in  it.  There  is  no 
approaching  destruction  like  that  threaten 
ing  the  sleeper  you  speak  of,"  pleaded  Bea 
trice. 

"  Which  is  worse,  destruction  of  your  body 
or  destruction  of  your  interest  in  keeping  it 
alive  ?"  asked  Chappelleford.  "  Believe  in  a 
man,  and  after  he  has  deceived  you,  or  after 
you  have  proved  him  a  fool,  you  despise  or 
hate  all  men  on  his  account.  Avoid  friend 
ship,  that  you  may  continue  to  care  for  man 
kind.  If  you  wish  to  value  the  species, 
don't  examine  specimens — familiarity  breeds 
contempt." 

"  0  Mr.  Chappelleford  !  yours  is  a  very 
dreary  faith  !"  exclaimed  Beatrice  bitterly.  / 

"  My  dear  young  lady,  when  you  come  to 
my  time  of  life,  it  will  be  yours  as  well.  I  re 
member  the  period  when  I  too  believed  in  all 
these  pretty  toys  of  friendship,  confidence, 
mutual  reliance,  and  the  rest,  and  the  waking 
from  my  dream  was  like  the  revivification  of  a 
drowned  man,  who  is  roused  from  the  sweet 
visions  that  are  death  to  the  keen  torture  that 
is  life." 

"And  what  comes  afterward?"  asked  Be 
atrice  slowly. 

"Indifference,"  replied  the  philosopher 
drearily.  "  Things  take  the  place  of  men, 
theories  of  sentiment,  speculations  of  pas 
sion.  You  become  an  observer  instead  of  an 
actor — a  thinker  instead  of  a  puppet." 

"  And  then  do  you  become  happy  ?"  asked 


56 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


the  young  girl    slowly  wringing  her  hands 
together 

"Happy!"  echoed  the  philosopher  scorn 
fully.  "  What  is  the  need  of  that  ?  Content 
yourself  with  your  position  as  an  atom  in 
creation,  and  do  not  expect  the  universe  to  be 
delayed,  or  its  eternal  order  to  be  disturbed, 
because  you  do  not  like  travelling  so  fast,  or 
because  some  other  atom  becomes  divided 
from  you.  Nothing  is  more  puerile  than  this 
outcry  for  happiness  in  which  young  persons 
constantly  indulge.  Make  yourself  happy,  if 
you  choose,  with  what  you  have,  or,  if  you 
prefer,  go  unhappy,  but  expect  nothing  better 
than  what  chances  to  befall  you,  for  you  will 
not  get  it.  And,  after  all,  happiness  is  princi 
pally  a  question  of  digestion,  and  your  best 
friend  is  a  pill-box." 

"I  do  not  like  you  in  this  mood,  Mr. 
Chappelleford,  and  I  am  going  to  the  draw 
ing-room,"  said  Beatrice,  turning  toward  the 
door. 

The  cynic  smiled  grimly,  and  followed  her 
across  the  hall.  In  the  open  doorway  of  the 
drawing-room  he  suddenly  laid  a  hand  upon 
her  arm,  and  drew  her  slightly  back. 

"  Look !"  whispered  he.  "  There  are  two  of 
the  friends  whom  you  trust  the  most,  and 
who  have  no  secrets  from  you,  as  you  fancy." 
Half  startled,  half  indignant,  Beatrice  fol 
lowed  the  direction  of  his  eyes,  and  saw  Mrs 
Charlton  standing  with  Mr.  Monckton  in  the 
recess  of  a  bay-window  at  the  farther  end  of 
the  room.  She,  with  her  face  buried  in  her 
hands,  appeared  to  be  weeping  bitterly,  and 
he,  stooping  toward  her,  was  talking  in  a  low 
voice,  full,  as  the  accents  betrayed,  of  tender 
meaning.  As  Beatrice  looked,  he  extended 
his  hand  with  something  in  it  toward  the 
weeping  woman,  who  seized  and  kissed  it 
passionately.  Then  she  made  some  request, 
in  a  voice  broken  with  sobs,  and  Monckton, 
leaning  over  her,  clasped  the  bauble  he  held 
about  her  neck.  Seizing  it  in  both  hands, 
Juanita  kissed  it  again  and  again,  while 
Monckton  leaned  caressingly  over  her. 

"  No   secrets  from  you,  you  know,"  whis 
pered  Mr.  Chappelleford  mockingly. 
And  Beatrice  angrily  replied  : 
"  At  least  you  shall  not  make  a  spy  of  me," 
and  walked  openly  into  the  room. 

As  she  approached  the  window,  Monckton 
came  forward,  and  with  a  skilful  remark, 
drew  her  to  the  piano  where  lay  some  new 
music,  while  Juanita  made  her  escape  through 


a  door  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room.  Be 
atrice  understood  the  manoeuvre,  and  smiled 
sadly.  For  a  moment  she  considered  within 
herself,  and  then  fixing  her  eyes  upon  Monck- 
ton's  face,  quietly  asked  : 

"  Of  what  were  you  and  Juanita  talking 
when  I  came  in  ?" 

"Oh!  nothing  much.  I  was  speaking  of 
Venice,  I  believe,"  said  the  traveller;  and 
Beatrice  turned  away  from  him  without  a 
word. 

In  a  few  moments,  Mrs.  Charlton  reentered 
the  room,  smiling  and  calm  as  usual ;  and 
Beatrice,  sitting  in  a  shaded  corner  of  the 
sofa,  a  fire-screen  before  her  eyes,  looked  on 
in  silent  amazement  while  she  placed  herself 
at  the  piano,  selected  one  of  the  new  pieces 
offered  by  Mr.  Monckton,  and  played  it  through 
with  a  faultless  brilliancy,  proving  the  closest 
attention  and  real  interest  in  the  subject  be 
fore  her. 

Mr.  Chappelleford,  who,  instead  of  return 
ing  to  the  library  with  his  host,  as  was  his 
usual  fashion,  had  followed  Beatrice  into  the 
drawing-room,  now  took  a  seat  upon  the  sofa 
reside  her. 

"  This  cannel-coal  makes  a  very  pretty 
ire,"  remarked  he  ;  but  Beatrice  did  not  hear 
lim. 

"  You  were  telling  me  that  you  wanted  a 
tiew  study  yesterday,"  said  he  again.  "  You 
seem  to  have  found  one.  How  do  you  like 

tr 

The  girl  turned  her  eyes  upon  him,  dark 
and  piteous  with  anguish. 

"  Do  not  mock  me,"  said  she  pleadingly. 
'  Can  it  be  that  those  two  have  deceived  me  ?" 

"  In  what  ?" 

"  Why,  they  both  seemed  so  open  and  so 
rustful  with  me.  He  said  I  was  his  friend 
md  knew  all  his  life ;  and  she — she  always 
spoke  of  him  as  a  stranger.  And  now  what 
does  it  mean  ?" 

"  Poor  child,  my  warning  was  too  late,"  said 
he  philosopher  pitifully.  "  You  have  trusted, 
and  you  have  been  deceived — that  is  all — only 
he  old  story  once  more.  I  do  not  know  the 
)recise  meaning  of  what  we  saw,  but  I  do 
tnow  that  Juanita  Charlton  is  a  coquette, 
rained  and  practised  from  her  earliest  youth. 

know  that  she  has  risked  her  own  reputa- 
ion  and  the  happiness  of  others  in  more  than 
ne  folly,  and  I  know  that  she  sincerely  wishes 
o  marry  any  one  with  money  and  position  to 
ender  her  independent  of  me ;  for  which  desire 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


57 


I  do  not  blame  her  in  the  least.  As  for  Mr. 
Monckton,  I  only  know  that  he  is — a  man." 

"  But  when  I  spoke  to  him  just  now  he  told 

me I  am  sure  it  could  not  have  been 

true,"  murmured  Beatrice. 

"  It  was  what  you  should  have  expected. 
Your  question  was  a  piece  of  Quixotic  dating. 
Not  one  man  in  a  thousand  could  or  should 
have  answered  you  truly." 

"  What !  you  defend  a  lie?" 

"  For  Mr.  Monckton  in  that  situation — yes. 
It  was  a  necessary  part  of  his  system." 

"  What  is  that  system  ?"  asked  Beatrice 
faintly. 

"  The  system  of  polite,  social  intercourse," 
replied  the  philosopher. 

"  What  would  you  have  done  in  his  place?" 

"  I  cannot  imagine  myself  in  his  place ;  but 
had  I  been,  I  suppose  I  should  have  told  you 
I  did  not  choose  to  answer  your  question. 
That  would  have  been  bearish  and  brutal,  and 
that  isn't  Mr.  Monckton's  manner  of  doing 
things." 

"  But  why  not  the  truth  ?" 

"  What !  that  I  was  making  love  to  another 
woman  !  Pardon  me,  Miss  Wansted,  but  you 
suggest  a  stupidity." 

"Better  that  than  a  lie." 

"  That  depends  upon  who  has  the  choice  to 
make,"  said  the  philosopher,  rising  and  stroll 
ing  toward  the  piano,  where  he  began  to 
speak  to  his  niece  in  so  confidential  a  tone 
that  Mr.  Monckton  withdrew,  and  after  a  little 
uneasy  wandering,  seated  himself  near  Be 
atrice,  who  met  his  attempts  at  conversation 
•with  cold  reserve— only  tempered  by  remem 
brance  of  her  position  as  hostess.  Monckton 
felt  it,  and  determined  to  bring  the  matter  to 
an  issue. 

"  You  are  offended  with  me  in  some  man 
ner.  What  is  it?"  asked  he.  "Remember 
that  we  are  friends." 

"  How  long  since  we  became  friends — that 
is,  since  I  told  you  that  I  considered  you  one  ?" 
asked  Beatrice. 

"  Nearly  four  months — four  very  happy 
months  to  me,"  said  Monckton  earnestly. 

"  Well,  in  all  that  four  months  I  have  never 
deceived  you  in  a  single  point.  There  are 
passages  in  my  life  which  I  have  not  told  you, 
because  I  tell  them  to  no  one  ;  but  every  thing 
that  has  occurred  to  me  since  you  knew  me,  I 
have  told  you  with  perfect  unreserve,  and  I  have 
never  answered  one  of  your  Questions  with 
less  than  entire  truth.  Do  you  believe  this  ?" 


"  I  believe  it  most  fully,  Beatrice." 

"  And  can  you  say  as  much  upon  your 
part  ?"  asked  Beatrice,  fixing  her  eyes  keenlv 
upon  him. 

Monckton  hesitated. 

"  Do  your  ideas  of  friendship  demand  as 
much  as  this  ?"  asked  he. 

"  Yes ;  every  thing  or  nothing,"  replied 
Beatrice. 

"  There  is  only  one  relation  of  life  in  which 
that  can  be  expected,"  said  Monckton,  in  a 
still  lower  voice  than  that  he  had  already  used. 

"  No  relation  is  to  me  more  sacred  than  a 
professed  and  accepted  friendship — no  relation 
demands  stricter  honor  or  more  inviolable 
confidence,"  said  Beatrice  severely. 

"I  know  what  you  mean,  Beatrice,"  said 
Monckton,  after  a  silent  but  obvious  struggle  ; 
"  and  I  cannot  clear  myself  at  present  from 
your  imputation  of  insincerity.  I  confess 
that  I  told  you  an  untruth  just  now,  when 
you  asked  me,  in  Mr.  Chappelleford's  hearing, 
of  what  I  had  been  talking  with  Mrs.  Charl- 
ton  ;  but  my  reply  was  a  mere  form,  as  I 
wished  you  to  perceive.  I  could  not  answer 
you,  and  I  could  not  leave  you  unanswered. 
I  was  obliged  to  speak,  and  I  replied  as  a  lady 
does  who  sends  word  that  she  is  not  at  home 
when  she  means  she  cannot  see  company. 
Nor  can  I  very  clearly  explain  myself,  nor " 

"  It  is  quite  unnecessary  that  you  should  do 
so  at  all,  Mr.  Monckton.  You  confess  to  hav 
ing  told  me  one  untruth  this  evening ;  and  al 
though  you  defend  your  course  in  some  re 
markable  manner,  I  am  not  enough  of  a  so 
phist  to  follow  you.  Let  us  drop  the  subject 
at  once  and  forever ;  and  I  will  now  wish  you 
good-evening,  and  leave  you  to  complete  your 
explanation  to  Mrs.  Cliarlton,  who  will  proba 
bly  understand  it  better  than  I  can." 

"  Before  retiring,  please  to  receive  my 
adieux,  as  I  am  on  the  point  of  leaving. 
Good-evening,  Miss  Wansted,  and  may  our 
next  interview  find  you  less  severely  and  more 
reasonably  inclined.  Good-evening,  Mrs. 
Charlton — Mr.  Chappelleford.  May  I  trouble 
you,  Mrs.  Charlton,  to  say  good  evening  for  me 
to  Mr.  Barstow  ?" 

And  with  a  formal  bow  to  every  one,  lie 
was  gone  ;  and  Beatrice,  honestly  indignant 
though  she  felt,  was  yet  conscious  of  a  heavy 
pain  at  her  heart  in  feeling  that  he  had  gone 
in  anger. 

Mr.  Chappelleford  soon  took  his  leave  ;  and 
the  two  women,  left  alone  together,  eyed  each 


THE   SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


other  in  the  manner  of  familiar  friends  be 
tween  whom  lies  an  unspoken  secret.  Slid 
denly  .luanita  approached  the  sofa,  where 
Beatrice  still  sat,  and  crouching  upon  the  has- 
Bock  at  her  feet,  held  up  by  its  chain  the  glit 
tering  toy  hanging  about  her  neck. 

"See  what  Mr.  Monckton  gave  me  just 
now.  It  is  an  Eastern  amulet,  and  was  sent 
to  me  by  a  friend  whom  Mr.  Monckton  met 
abroad,"  said  she. 

"  And  he  has  never  given  it  to  you  until  to 
night  ?"  asked  Beatrice  incredulously. 

"  No,  he  could  not.  I  cannot  tell  you  about 
it  just  now." 

"  There  is  no  need,  Juanita.     It  is  no  affair 


my  heart !  my  heart !  what  are  all  these  child 
ish  troubles  to  your  great  anguish  1  Now,  at 
least,  I  can  be  alone." 

And  with  hurried,  yet  trembling  steps, 
Juanita  fled  to  her  own  chamber,  and  locked 
herself  into  it  alone. 


The  Amulet. 

of  mine ;  and  these  answers  of  form,  as  Mr. 
Monckton  calls  them,  are  very  distasteful  to 
me.  You  need  not  have  tried  to  explain  at 
all."  And  Beatrice,  her  heart  full  of  bitter 
ness  and  her  eyes  of  tears,  rose,  and  hastily 
left  the  room. 

Mrs.  Charlton  rose  also,  and  replacing  the 
amulet  in  her  bosom,  muttered : 

"  Poor  child  ! — poor,  jealous  baby — striking 
at  the  hand  that  tries  to  soothe  you.  I  am  sure 
it  was  very  good  of  me  to  try  to  explain,  and 
no  fault  if  she  would  not  listen  ;  and  yet  I  am 
sorry  to  break  off  that  friendship.  But,  0 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

A  LETTER   FROM   AUNT  RACHEL. 

"MY  DEAR  NIECE  BEATRICE:  It  is  a  long  time 
t-ince  we  heard  any  thing  from  you,  and  I  trust  that 
both  you  and  brother  Israel  are  in  good  health, 
and  prospered  in  your  undertakings.  We  are  all 
in  the  enjoyment  of  our  usual  health,  except  your 
grandmother,  who  has  an  attack  of  rheumatism, 
from  standing  at  the  porch-door  talking  to  Jacob, 
our  hired  man,  about  the  new  calf.  This  calf  is 
the  daughter  of  Polly,  the  red  and  white  heifer 
that  you  liked  so  well  and  dressed  with  a  garland 
of  wild  flowers,  which  she  pulled  off  and  eat  up. 
That  was  last  Independence-day,  you  remember,  and 
you  got  mostly  blue  flowers,  because,  you  said,  she 
must  be  red,  blue,  and  white.  The  new  calf  is  very 
pretty,  and  we  think  of  raising  it ;  but  we  shall  not 
name  it  until  you  come  home,  as  you  may  have  a 
choice  in  the  matter.  Grandfather  is  very  well,  con 
sidering,  and  often  speaks  of  you.  He  says  he  wants 
to  see  you  very  much,  and  hopes  you  will  not  have 
grown  out  of  knowledge.  He  forgets,  being  old,  that 
you  are  grown  up  already,  and  will  not  change  out 
wardly  any  more  until  you  begin  to  grow  old,  which  I 
suppose  will  not  be  yet. 

"Nancy  is  well,  I  suppose,  but  she  tires  me  very 
much  through  forgetting  what  I  tell  her.  Yesterday 
she  set  a  flat  dish  under  the  churn-stand,  pulled  out 
the  plug  and  let  the  buttermilk  run,  and  then  forgot  to 
stop  it  until  it  had  flashed  out  of  the  dish  all  over  the 
floor.  Then  she  forgets  to  make  grandma's  farina  for 
breakfast  until  I  go  out  and  do  it,  and  that  disturbs 
grandma  very  much.  But  we  all  have  our  trials,  and  I 
know  these  are  not  as  great  as  those  some  are  called  to 
bear. 

"  There  is  no  news  in  Milvor,  except  that  Joachim 
Brewster  and  Semanthy  Brewster  are  married,  which 
many  of  us  think  a  burning  shame — not  but  what  it  is 
better  than  some  other  ways  of  living  which  I  will  not 
allude  to.  Last  month  they  found  the  bones  of  poor 
little  Euthie  in  Black  Briar  Pool,  with  the  remains  of 
her  dress  and  shoes  still  on  her.  The  body  had  drifted 
under  the  bank  where  it  shelves  over,  and  lay  hid  among 
the  weeds.  It  was  Joachim  found  it,  going  fishing, 
and  a  good  many  knew  the  piece  of  calico  clinging  to 
the  poor  arm-bones.  It  all  seems  straight  enough,  and 
they  had  a  funeral,  and  a  coroner's  inquest,  and  it  was 
put  down  in  the  town  records  that  it  was  Ruth  Brew 
ster  that  died;  but  somehow  my  mind  misgives  me  that 
it  is  not  all  exactly  right.  I  am  sure  I  do  not  know 
how  it  can  he  wrong,  but  I  would  not  trust  Semanthy 
Brewster  with  a  dish  of  apple-parings  if  I  was  partic 
ular  the  pig  should  get  them  ;  and  as  for  Joachim,  he 
never  had  much  force  anyway,  and  I  guess  she  trains 
him  round  pretty  much  as  she  has  a  mind  to. 

"  I  do  not  know  of  any  more  news,  my  dear  niece, 
except  some  that  I  suppose  will  surprise  you  a  good 
deal— and  that  is,  that  I  have  concluded  to  be  married 
to  Wyman  Bliss,  and  we  shall  have  the  wedding  next 
fourth  of  March,  the  same  day  that  the  new  President 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


59 


begins  to  live  in  the  White  House,  and  it  seems  a  sort 
of  date  to  start  from.  I  hope,  my  dear  niece,  that  you 
•will  not  feel  that  I  am  doing  any  tiling  unbecoming  in 
a  maiden  lady  who  is  no  longer  young  ;  but  it  seemed 
to  me  as  good  as  any  thing  that  could  be  done,  for 
your  grandfather  is  getting  so  old  it  seems  as  if  there 
ought  to  bo  some  other  man  round  the  house,  and  Wy- 
man,  being  a  doctor,  makes  it  real  comfortable  in  case 
of  sudden  sickness  or  any  thing  happening  unexpect 
edly. 

'•  Grandfather  and  grandmother  seem  very  well 
pleased  with  the  arrangement,  and  grandfather  is  go 
ing  to  give  up  the  farm  to  us — which,  I  suppose,  means 
to  me,  for  the  doctor  has  his  hands  full  with  his  pro 
fession — as  is  no  wonder  when  you  consider  that  there 
is  not  so  good  a  doctor  in  the  country.  But  though  we 
take  the  farm  now,  you  need  not  be  afraid,  my  dear 
niece,  that  you  are  to  be  cheated  out  of  your  rights,  or 
Israel  either,  as  I  shall  explain  to  him  when  I  see  him, 
which  I  hope  will  be  soon,  for  neither  Wymaii  nor  I 
would  do  any  thing  unfair  or  try  to  get  the  upper  hand, 
especially  when  you  know,  Trix,  that  you've  always 
been  like  a  child — I  will  not  say  to  me,  being  a  maiden 
lady,  but  in  the  house,  and  we  all  take  an  interest  in 
you  just  as  we  always  did.  I  have  begun  to  get  ready 
somewhat,  but  I  should  be  glad  of  a  little  of  your  taste 
about  my  new  gown— I  refer  to  the  one  I  shall  be  mar 
ried  in,  and  also  to  know  whether  I  had  better  wear  a 
bonnet ;  for  as  for  flowers  on  my  head,  or  a  veil,  or  any 
such  nonsense,  I  must  say  I  should  not  consider  it  re 
spectable.  Also,  grandmamma  would  like  a  new  blonde 
cap,  she  says,  and  perhaps  you  will  buy  the  material 
for  her.  Also  for  the  dress,  for  which  I  enclose  the 
money,  twenty  dollars.  It  is  a  large  sum  for  one  dress, 
but  I  want  it  good  and  handsome,  and  something  that 
will  be  serviceable.  I  should  say  a  cinnamon  brown 
bearing  on  a  chocolate  would  be  a  good  color,  but  per 
haps  a  gray  would  be  better.  For  service,  I  should  pre 
fer  a  black  silk  ,  but  I  suppose  that  would  not  be  con 
sidered  proper  for  a  bride — that  is,  for  a  person  going 
to  be  married. 

"  But,  above  all  things,  my  dear  Trix,  I  want  to  see 
you.  We  shall  have  a  quilting-bee  here  all  day  Thurs 
day  of  next  week,  and  I  wish  you  could  make  it  so  as 
to  be  at  home.  To-day  is  Tuesday  ;  so  that  gives  yon 
ten  days  to  pay  good-by  in,  and  to  buy  the  lace  for 
grandmother  and  the  other  that  I  mentioned. 

"  Give  my  love  to  your  uncle,  and,  if  you  please,  you 
can  mention  what  I  say. 

"  Your  affectionate  aunt, 

"  RACHEL  M.  BARSTOW." 

With,  this  letter  in  her  hand,  and  a  smile 
upon  her  lips,  Beatrice  sought  her  uncle  in  his 
dressing-room,  and  tapping  gently  at  the  door, 
was  bidden  to  enter.  Obeying,  she  started 
back  in  some  surprise — hardly  recognizing  her 
relative  beneath  the  mask  of  soap-suds  with 
which  his  manly  visage  was  adorned. 

"  The  deuce !  Is  it  you,  Trix  ?  I  thought 
it  was  the  fellow  with  my  boots.  But  come 
in,  little  girl — come  in,  if  you're  not  afraid  to. 
I'm  almost  through  dressing,  and  then  I  must 
hurry  off  down-town ;  so  you  might  as  well 
say  what  you  have  to  say  here  as  anywhere. 
You'd  like  a  little  money,  eh  ?  See  how  sharp 
your  old  uncle  is  at  guessing." 


"  No,  indeed,  uncle ;  I  have  not  half  spent 
what  you  gave  me  last  time.  You  are  so 
generous  I  never  have  the  opportunity  to  ask 
for  money.  I  came  this  time  to  give  you 
some  news." 

"  What !  you're  not  going  to  be  married  ?" 
asked  Mr.  Barstow,  turning  from  the  glass, 
razor  in  hand,  and  contemplating  his  niece 
with  comic  dismay. 

"  Oh  !  no,  uncle,  I  have  no  thoughts  of  it ; 
but  I  will  read  you  Aunt  Rachel's  letter,  and 
then  you  will  know  all  about  it." 

"  Rachel !  The  old  folks  aren't  dead  !  No 
— you  wouldn't  look  so  smiling.  Well,  there ! 
I  am  a  fool  to  keep  guessing,  when,  if  I  hold 
my  tongue,  I  shall  know  all  about  it ;  so,  go 
ahead,  Trix." 

And  Mr.  Barstow  effectually  sealed  his  own 
lips  with  a  fresh  brushful  of  lather,  while  his 
niece,  perching  herself  upon  the  edge  of  the 
writing-table  which  adorned  the  merchant's 
dressing-room,  read  the  letter  through  without 
interruption.  As  she  finished,  Mr.  Barstow's 
face  issued  from  the  napkin,  which  finished 
his  tonsorial  operations,  rubicund,  smiling, 
and  smooth  as  a  new-shaven  lawn. 

"  The  jolly  old  sister  going  to  get  married 
at  last !"  exclaimed  he.  "  Well,  if  that  isn't 
the  last  dodge !  And  Wyman  Bliss,  too  I 
Why,  I  knew  him  when  he  was  a  boy,  and 
he's  always  been  hanging  round  after  Rachel 
ever  since.  Well,  we  must  go  to  the  wedding, 
and  have  a  rousing  good  time,  and  we'll  make 
them  some  presents.  What  do  you  say  to  a 
dinner-service  of  plate  with  the  coat-of-arms, 
and  all  just  as  we  have  here  at  home  ?" 

"  I  am  afraid  they  would  never  use  it,  uncle," 
replied  Beatrice  gently.  "  But  there  are  a 
great  many  things  that  would  be  delightful 
to  give  them.  Aunt  Rachel  has  sent  to  me  to 
buy  her  wedding-dress,  you  know " 

"  And  sent  twenty  dollars  to  pay  for  it !  Ha, 
ha !"  laughed  Mr.  Barstow.  "  Why,  a  first- 
rate  silk  gown,  fit  for  a — '  a  person  that  is  go 
ing  to  be  married' — ha,  ha! — would  cost  a 
hundred,  wouldn't  it  ?" 

"  The  silk  itself  would  cost  about  fifty,  and 
the  trimming  as  much  as  any  one  chose  to 
give,"  said  Trix. 

"  Well,  you  go  down-town  and  pick  out  the 
very  best  and  handsomest  silk  in  the  shops, 
and  the  nicest  sort  of  trimming  to  go  with  it, 
and  mind  there's  plenty  of  it — both  gown  and 
trimming — and  send  the  bills  to  me  ;  or  had 
you  rather  have  the  cost  in  hand  ?" 

"  A  little  of  both,  please,  uncle.    I  may  have 


60 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


to  look  about  for  trimmings,  and  go  to  new 
places." 

"  Very  well  ;  here  is  a  check  for  two  hun 
dred  dollars;  and  when  that  is  gone,  just 
drive  down  to  the  office,  and  send  up  for  me, 
or  if  I  am  out,  for  Rowley.  As  for  credit,  you 
can  use  that  at  discretion.  And  while  you  are 
about  it,  Trix,  you  might  as  well  get  yourself 
and  June  new  dresses  for  the  wedding— some 
thing  handsome,  but  not  showy  enough  to 
make  the  good  Milvor  folks  feel  ashamed  of 
their  own  rig.  That  wouldn't  be  good  man 
ners,  you  know." 

"  No,  indeed,  uncle ;  and  for  my  own  part,  I  do 
not  need  a  single  thing ;  I  have  a  great  plenty 
of  dresses  for  a  year  to  come.  But,  uncle,  do 
you  think  Mrs.  Charlton  had  better  go  to  the 
•wedding  ?" 

"  Why,  she's  one  of  ourselves,  isn't  she  ?" 
demanded  Mr.  Bargtow,  in  considerable  sur 
prise.  "  I  supposed  of  course  she  would  go." 

Beatrice,  folding  and  creasing  the  corner  of 
the  envelope  she  held  in  her  hand,  made  no 
reply. 

Mr.  Barstow  looked  at  her  a  moment  in 
much  perplexity,  whisked  an  atom  of  dust 
from  his  coat-sleeve,  and  then  asked  : 

"  Don't  you  want  her,  Trix  ?" 

"  To  tell  the  truth,  uncle,  I  think  she  would 
be  rather  out  of  place  at  Milvor,  and  I  do  not 
believe  Aunt  Rachel  would  enjoy  seeing  her." 

"  Oh !  well,  that  alters  the  case.  Very  like 
ly  Rachel  might  feel  a  little  troubled  about 
the  country  ways  and  homely  fashions  of  the 
Old  Garrison  House " 

"  Uncle  Israel !  you  don't  suppose  I  meant 
that  there  was  any  thing  to  be  asftamed  of  in 
our  dear  old  home  ?  I  am  sure  I  wish  every 
one  was  as  honest,  and  truthful,  and  reliable 
as  Aunt  Rachel,  or  that  other  people's  ways 
were  half  as  good  as  the  country  ways  and 
homely  fashions  of  the  Old  Garrison  House. 
No  matter  who  goes  to  Aunt  Rachel's  wed 
ding,  there  will  not  be  a  better  woman  there 
than  herself." 

If  Mr.  Barstow  had  been  surprised  before, 
he  was  now  actually  petrified,  and  stood 
staring  at  his  niece,  who  never,  in  the  whole 
course  of  her  life,  had  spoken  so  vehemently 
in  his  presence  before. 

Beatrice,  looking  up,  met  his  eyes,  and  her 
own  filled  with  tears  of  shame.  Springing 
suddenly  from  her  seat,  she  threw  her  arms 
about  his  neck. 

"  Oh !    forgive  me,  Uncle  Israel !      I  was 


very,  very  wrong  to  speak  so  to  you,  but  I — I 
am  not  well,  1  believe — I  am  hardly  myself. 
It  will  do  me  good  to  go  home  and  be  quiet 
for  a  while.  Let  me  go  to-day." 

"  Not  to-day,  dearie,  or  to-morrow,  but  as 
soon  as  we  can  make  you  suitably  ready,"  said 
Uncle  Israel,  tenderly  smoothing  the  bright 
hair  straying  over  his  breast,  while  his  honest 
face  never  lost  its  look  of  wonder  and  concern. 
"  Yes,  little  girl,  you  shall  go  and  stay  until 
after  the  wedding ;  but  then,  you  know,  you 
are  to  come  home  for  good  and  all.  This  is 
home,  remember." 

"  Thank  you,  dear,  dear  uncle." 

"  Thank  you  for  nothing,  you  mean.  Don't 
you  know  that  I  can't  get  on  without  you,  you 
monkey  ?  And  as  for  asking  June  to  the 
wedding,  I  believe  you  are  right.  She  would 
be  a  little  out  of  place,  and  it  might  be  un 
comfortable  all  round.  She  can  stay  with  her 
uncle  at  the  Grandarc  while  we  are  away,  eh  ?" 

"Just  aa  you  please,  uncle,"  murmured 
Beatrice. 

"  Then  that's  settled ;  and  now  give  me  a 
kiss  and  let  me  go,  and  you  take  the  carnage 
and  go  buy  the  wedding-finery." 


CHAPTER  XXHI. 
WEDDING-FINERY. 

"  AND  now,  Aunt  Rachel,"  said  Beatrice,  the 
morning  after  her  arrival  in  Milvor ;  "  now  let 
us  have  a  little  fire  in  your  chamber,  and  I 
will  show  you  my  shopping." 

"  Dear  me,  child,  I'm  in  no  hurry  whatever 
about  that.  Miss  Billings  isn't  coming  until 
Friday  to  cut  my  dresses,  and  it  will  be  time 
enough  then." 

"  Now,  Aunt  Rachel,  that  is  clear,  sheer 
nonsense!  You  want  to  make  me  believe 
that  you  have  no  curiosity  even  about  your 
wedding-dress,  and  I  shan't  believe  a  word  of 
it.  Of  course  you  want  to  see  it,  and  I  want 
to  show  it,  and  I  am  not  going  to  hurry  about 
it  either  ;  so  I  shall  j  ust  go  and  make  the  fire 
myself,  and  then  call  you  up." 

With  which  declaration,  Miss  Wansted,  her 
brilliant  robes  exchanged  for  one  of  gray 
linsey-woolsey,  with  a  bit  of  blue  ribbon  and 
the  plainest  of  linen  collars  at  the  neck,  and  a 
pair  of  cuffs  to  match  at  the  wrists,  ran  out  of 
the  room,  and  was  presently  seen  picking  up 
chips  in  the  wood-yard. 

"  Dear  creeter,"  murmured  her  grandmother 
— "  not  the  leastest  mite  of  difference,  for  all 
the  silk  gowns  and  fal-lals  Israel  has  given 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


61 


her,  and  all  the  attention  the  young  fellers 
have  been  paying  her.  I  was  dreadful  afraid 
Blie'd  be  set  up  in  her  own  conceit,  and  not 
tliink  so  much  of  our  humble  ways ;  but  there 
isn't  any  thing  of  that,  as  I  can  see." 

"  You're  too  modest,  wife,"  replied  the  dea 
con,  glancing  at  her  over  the  top  of  his  Fene- 
lon.  "  I  don't  know  why  our  grand-daughter 
should  be  either  daunted  or  too  much  aston 
ished  by  the  ways  of  people  richer  maybe,  but 
no  better,  I  hope,  than  those  she  has  always 
lived  among." 

"  Well,  that's  true  enough,  too,  father,"  as 
sented  the  old  lady,  straightening  herself  a 


P'cJnny  up  chips  in  (Tie  wood-yard. 

little.  "  The  Barstows  are  as  good  as  any 
body " 

"  So  long  as  they  behave  as  well,"  inter 
posed  her  husband,  with  a  quiet  smila  behind 
his  book  ;  and  Mrs.  Barstow  rather  doubtfully 
assented  to  the  qualified  self-glorification. 

Beatrice,  meanwhile,  had  filled  her  pretty 
black  silk  apron  with  long  ringlets  of  pine- 
shavings,  cones  of  the  fragrant  fir-tree,  splin 
ters  and  clean  white  chips  from  the  heart  of 
the  beech  and  buttonwood  logs  lying  cleft  in 
the  wood-yard,  and  some  dry  branches  lopped 
from  the  tops  of  the  pine  trees,  whose  straight 
trunks  lay  side  by  side,  ready  to  be  hauled  to 


the  saw-mill ;  for  the  deacon  burned  his  own 
wood,  and  had  some  to  sell  to  his  neighbors 
beside. 

"  Will  you  please  bring  in  an  armful  of 
wood,  Jacob  ?  Up  into  Miss  Rachel's  room, 
if  you  please,"  said  the  young  lady,  bestowing 
a  gracious  smile  upon  the  sinewy,  wiry,  and 
most  unlovely  Yankee  who  at  present  re 
placed  Paul  Freeman  at  the  Old  Garrison 
House. 

"  Oh !  yes,  I'll  fetch  in  as  much  as  you  want. 
Kind  o'  chilly  this  morning,  a'n't  it?" 

"  Somewhat  more  than  chilly,  I  think,  Ja 
cob,"  said  the  young  lady,  glancing  rather 
ruefully  at  the  snowy  landscape  ;  "  it  looks 
like  midwinter  yet." 

"  Not  if  you  know  how  midwinter  had 
ought  to  look,"  bluntly  replied  Jacob.  "  See 
them  great  white  clouds  banking  up  in  the 
south  ?  You  don't  never  see  none  of  them  in 
December  or  January,  do  you  ?  And  then  see 
how  sort  of  rotten  the  snow  breaks  away  when 
I  pull  a  stick  out  o'  the  pile.  There'll  be  a 
change  o'  weather  'fore  long,  and  I  mistrust 
it'll  be  rain.  Declare  for 't,  I  guess  I'd  better 
go  into  the  woods  to-day,  and  leave  this  'ere 
chopping  for  a  time  when  I  can't  do  nothing 
else.  Wonder  what  the  deacon  'd  say  ?" 

And  Jacob,  straightening  himself  with  a 
huge  armful  of  wood,  drew  his  right  shirt 
sleeve  across  his  nose  and  looked  inquiringly 
at  the  sky. 

"  You  had  better  go  into  the  sitting-room 
and  speak  to  grandfather,"  said  Beatrice  smil 
ing  ;  "  and  if  you  do  go  to  the  woods,  I  should 
like  to  go  with  you.  I  have  not  seen  the 
woods  this  whole  winter." 

"  Well,  you  can  if  you're  a  mind  to,  and  I 
suppose  you'll  be  for  riding  home  on  the  load, 
so  I'll  carry  along  a  buffalo  for  you  to  set  on," 
replied  Jacob,  with  composure  ;  and  Beatrice, 
thanking  him  as  politely  as  she  ever  thanked 
Messrs.  Laforet  et  Cie  for  less  genuine  courte 
sies,  ran  into  the  house  and  up-stairs  with  her 
light  burden,  soberly  followed  by  Jacob  with 
his  wood. 

"  Shan't  I  build  the  fire  for  you,  ma'am  ?" 
asked  he,  clumping  carefully  across  the  car 
pet,  and  leaving  a  cake  of  half-melted  snow  at 
every  footfall. 

"  No,  thank  you,  Jacob ;  I  know  how  very 
well  myself.  You  had  better  speak  to  grand 
papa  ;  and  if  you  are  going  to  the  woods,  send 
me  word  by  Nancy.  You  won't  start  just  this 
minute,  will  you  ?" 


62 


THE   SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH   MOUNTAIN 


"  No  ma'am  ;  I  suppose  I  must  chop  up 
some  km'Iin'-stuff  for  Nancy's  oven,  or  she'll 
be  in  my  hair.  They're  going  to  bake 
to-day." 

"  Well,  I  shall  be  ready  in  half  an  hour," 
said  Beatrice  rather  breathlessly,  for  the  large 
log  she  was  adjusting  at  the  back  of  the  fire 
place  required  all  her  strength.  Jacob 
watched  her  movements  admiringly  for  a 
moment,  and  then  clumping  out  as  carefully 
as  he  had  clumped  in,  went  down-s'tairs  mut 
tering  : 

"A  smart  gal  that,  and  as  pretty  as  a 
picter'." 

The  back-log  adjusted,  Beatrice  pushed  the 
andirons  close  up  against  it,  selected  a  solid 
white-oak  fore-stick  to  lay  across  them,  filled 
the  interval  between  back  and  fore-stick  with 
email  wood  crowned  with  some  of  the  dry  pine- 
twigs  and  cones,  and  then  made  a  little  heap 
of  shavings,  chips,  and  twigs  underneath. 

"There,"  said  she,  looking  at  the  completed 
edifice ;  "  grandpapa  couldn't  have  done  it 
better  himself." 

Then  ehe  lighted  a  match,  touched  it  to  the 
shavings,  and  seated  d  VOrientale  upon  the 
hearth-rug,  watched,  with  well-satisfied  gaze, 
the  flame  as  it  devoured  the  shavings,  then 
caught  upon  the  pine-twigs,  and  creeping  up 
ward  through  the  lattice- work  of  more  solid 
fuel,  leaped  hungrily  upon  the  dried  pine-nee 
dles  and  fir-cones  at  the  top,  and  feeding  upon 
them,  grew  strong  enough  to  attack  the  heav 
ier  sticks  between  the  two. 

"  How  lovely  !"  whispered  Beatrice,  select 
ing  half  a  dozen  cones  from  the  heap  of  kin 
dling,  and  placing  them  so  artistically  among 
the  sticks  as  to  lead  the  flames  from  step  to 
step  through  the  whole  pyre  ;  and  then  warm 
ing  her  red-tipped  fingers  at  the  growing 
blaze,  she  watched  admiringly  the  play  of  the 
flames,  and  remembered  one  of  Mr.  Chappeile- 
ford's  whimsical  theories,  to  the  effect  that 
every  wood,  in  process  of  combustion,  pro 
duces  a  flame  shaped  like  the  leaf  of  its  own 
tree,  and  she  tried  to  distinguish  the  pointed 
needles  of  the  pine,  the  sinuated  leaves  of 
the  oak,  and  the  five-fingered  palms  of 
the  buttonwood,  in  the  rustling  river  of 
flame  that  now  poured  up  the  chimney.  But 
try  as  she  might,  the  flame-leaves  only  re 
minded  her  of  the  fantastic  and  airy  forms  of 
the  trees  that  grow  in  fairy-land  ;  and  after  a 
while,  Beatrice,  desisting  from  the  effort,  sat 
gazing  dreamily  iuto  the  fire,  and  thinking 


her  own  thoughts,  or  perhaps  those  of  Corne 
lius  Agrippa,  who  tells  us  through  a  modern 
poet : 

"As  the  Spirits  of  Darkness  be  stronger  in 
the  dark,  so  Good  Spirits,  which  be  Angels  of 
Light,  are  augmented  not  only  by  the  Divine 
Light  of  the  Sun,  but  also  by  our  common 
Wood  Fire  ;  and  as  the  Celestial  Fire  drives 
away  dark  spirits,  so  also  this,  our  Fire  of 
Wood,  doth  the  same." 

From  this  reverie  she  was  startled  by  the 
voice  of  Aunt  Rachel. 

"Well,  I  declare,  Beatrice,  you're  just  the 
same  careless  girl  you  used  to  be — picking 
up  chips  in  that  black  silk  apron,  all  trimmed 
off  with  lace  and  beads  and  fal-lals,  and  all 
but  new,  I  dare  say.  And  then  those  French 
slippers  right  out  in  the  snow,  and  silk  stock 
ings  !  Well,  Beatrice,  you  may  laugh,  but  it 
is  no  better  than  tempting  Providence,  and  I 
don't  suppose  you'll  say  you  mean  to  do  that." 

"  Why,  aunty,  what  do  you  think  Provi 
dence  could  be  tempted  to  do  to  me  ?  Don't 
you  believe  Providence  means  our  Father  in 
Heaven,  who  only  wishes  to  make  us  happy 
and  well  ?"  asked  the  girl,  without  removing 
her  eyes  from  the  blaze,  where,  perhaps,  she 
had  found  the  creed  which  filled  Aunt  Rachel's 
good  Calvinistic  heart  Avith  dismay. 

"  Beatrice  Wansted  !"  exclaimed  she,  "don't 
tell  me  that  you're  going  to  turn  Free-thinker 
and  Radical,  and  all  that.  You've  been  to 
hear  Parker,  I  know  you  have  !" 

"  Why,  Aunty  Barstow !  you  cruel,  cruel 
dear,  to  go  and  call  your  little  Trix  a  Free 
thinker  !  Aren't  you  horribly  ashamed  of 
yourself?"  And  the  girl,  jumping  up,  threw 
her  arms  about  her  aunt's  neck  with  a  laugh 
and  a  kiss,  whirled  her  sacrilegiously  round 
the  room,  and  finally  seated  her  in  a  great 
wooden  rocking-chair  in  front  of  the  fire,  while 
she  herself  fell  upon  her  knees  before  the 
great  trunk  which  she  had  caused  to  be  placed 
in  her  aunt's  room  instead  of  her  own 

"Well,  I  believe  I  was  wrong,  and  that  you 
are  changed  in  some  things,  Trix,"  said  Miss 
Rachel  meditatively. 

"  How,  aunty  ?"  asked  Beatrice,  bending 
over  the  open  trunk  to  hide  a  smile. 

"  Why,  you  seem  to  have  got  a  way  of  slid 
ing  off  from  things  you  don't  want  to  talk 
about,  and  that  once  you'd  have  got  provoked 
over,"  said  Miss  Barstow,  and  Beatrice  bent 
still  lower  into  the  trunk. 

"  There,  aunty,  there   is   a  new  dress   for 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


Nancy,"  said  she  suddenly,  as  she  drew  out  a 
piece  of  woollen  stuff,  and  laid  it  upon  her 
aunt's  lap. 

"  For  Nancy,  child  ?" 

"  Yes,  aunty.  Uncle  Israel  gave  me  some 
money  to  spend  for  wedding-finery,  he  said, 
and  I  thought  I  would  get  Nancy  a  dress  out 
of  it." 

"  Why,  it's  too  good.     Merino,  isn't  it  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  thought  it  was  not  best  to  get  silk 
for  her,  although  I  could  have  bought  it  for 
the  same  price  as  the  thibet." 

"  Silk  indeed !  I  should  think  not !"  ex 
claimed  Miss  Barstow.  "  I  don't  desire  to  see 
any  one  in  my  kitchen  dressed  out  in  silks  or 
satins.  That  is  a  pretty  color  ;  what  do  you 
call  it  ?" 

"  Bismarck-brown,  aunty.  It  is  very  fash 
ionable." 

"  Just  about  the  color  I  thought  of  for  that 
dress  I  asked  you  to  get  me.  Where  is  that  *>" 

And  a  tinge  of  red  rose  to  Miss  Rachel's 
withered  cheek  as  she  thus  betrayed  her  se 
cret  impatience. 

Beatrice  took  a  huge  parcel,  carefully  envel 
oped  in  tissue-paper,  from  the  trunk,  and  lay 
ing  it  upon  the  bed,  proceeded  very  deliber 
ately  to  unpin  it,  while  she  said : 

"  Now,  Aunt  Rachel,  there  is  a  good  deal  to 
say  upon  the  subject  of  that  dress.  In  the 
first  place,  cinnamon-brown,  or  chocolate,  or 
even  Bismarck,  are  not  the  colors  for  a  wed 
ding-dress  ;  and  you  know  you  want  to  look 
as  a  bride  should — now,  don't  you  ?" 

"  Bride  !     At  my  time  of  life !     Pho !  child." 

And  the  reflection  of  the  blaze  or  something 
else  glowed  in  a  very  becoming  crimson  upon 
Miss  Rachel's  cheeks  and  lips,  and  danced 
brightly  in  her  eyes. 

"  Time  of  life,  indeed  !  No  one  would  take 
you  for  a  day  over  thirty  to  see  you  now, 
aunty.  But  about  the  dress.  I  don't  think 
Miss  Billings  is  quite  so  good  a  dressmaker  as 
we  have  in  town,  although  she  is  a  very  nice 
old  lady  ;  and,  besides,  you  have  so  much  to 
do,  you  know.  So  the  amount  of  the  whole 
is,  that  Uncle  Israel  told  me  to  get  a  dress,  and 
have  it  made  up  and  trimmed,  as  his  present 
to  yon,  and  here  it  is."  A 

With  which  summary  introduction,  Beatrice, 
a  little  flushed  herself — for  what  woman  is 
quite  iron-clad  against  the  cunningly-feathered 
arrows  of  the  genius  of  Dress  ? — unfolded  and 
shook  out  upon  the  bed  the  folds  of  a  moire 
silk,  tinted  like  the  soft  gray  clouds  that  float 


so  lovingly  across  the  blue  of  a  June  sky.  The 
dress  was  fashioned  in  a  quiet  modification  of 
the  style  of  the  day,  and  was  doubtfully  pro 
nounced  by  the  modiste  who  wrought  under 
Miss  Wansted's  directions — "  Very,  very  plain 
indeed,  although  of  splendid  material." 

Miss  Barstow's  verdict  was  different : 

"Why,  Beatrice- Beatrice  Wansted !"  ex 
claimed  she,  holding  up  both  hands,  and  star 
ing  at  the  shining  folds  of  moire  with  a  look 
divided  between  awe  and  admiration. 

"  It  is  fit  for  Eugeny  with  her  crown  on !" 

'•  I  hope  it  will  fit  you  even  better,  aunty 
dear  ;  and  that  the  day  when  you  first  wear  it 
will  make  you  happier  than  any  queen,"  said 
Beatrice,  kissing  her  aunt  with  dewy  eyes. 

"  And  here,"  continued  she,  bringing  forth  a 
carton  tied  across  with  blue  ribbons,  "  here  is 
a  little  present  from  me  to  go  with  the  dress." 
And  with  dexterous  fingers  she  drew  forth 
and  adjusted  upon  the  silk  a  collar,  sleeves, 
and  head-dress  of  fine  Mechlin  lace  ornament 
ed  with  knots  of  blue  ribbon. 

"Blue  ribbons  for  me,  Trix?"  exclaimed 
Miss  Barstow  feebly. 

"  Yes,  aunty,  they  make  such  a  lovely  con 
trast  with  the  pearl-gray  of  the  dress,  and  you 
know  you  must  not  be  married  all  in  gray. 
You  asked  me  about  a  bonnet,  or  a  veil,  and 
so  I  thought  perhaps  you  would  fancy  this 
head-dress,  which  has,  you  see,  a  sort  of  veil 
hanging  at  the  back,  and  for  other  occasions 
you  can  alter  it  a  little,  or  take  off  the  veil." 

"  That  dress  cost  a  great  deal  more  than 
twenty  dollars,  Beatrice !"  said  Miss  Barstow 
severely  ;  and  her  niece  could  not  restrain  a 
little  laugh. 

"  It  isn't  pretty  to  ask  the  price  of  a  present, 
you  know,  dearie,"  said  she  ;  "  and  I  thought 
perhaps  you  would  like  to  spend  the  twenty 
dollars  in  something  for  grandmamma ;  so  I 
bought  this  nice  black  silk  for  her  to  wear  at 
the  wedding,  and  this  cap  to  go  with  it.  But 
Uncle  Israel  rather  scolded  me  for  doing  it, 
because  he  said  it  was  not  business-like  to 
spend  the  money  sent  us  for  a  certain  purpose 
in  another  way.  So  if  you  would  prefer  the 
money,  I  have  it  all  ready  ;  or  if  you  would 
like  to  make  the  present  to  grandmamma,  you 
can  do  that." 

"  I  should  like  to  make  the  present  to  grand 
mamma,  and  you  were  a  very  thoughtful, 
good  girl  to  think  of  it,"  said  Miss  Rachel, 
well  pleased,  as  Beatrice  had  foreseen  that  she 
would  be. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


"And  what  will  you  w^r  yourself?"  pur 
sued  she,  glancing  at  the  nearly  -  emptied 
trunk. 

"  Oh  !  I  brought  down  two  dresses,  and  you 
must  tell  me  which  you  like  best,"  said  Be 
atrice  carelessly  ;  and  produced  from  the  depths 
of  the  box  a  mauve  silk,  and  one  of  sky-blue, 
both  of  them  fresh  and  handsome. 

"Two  silk  gowns  at  once,  Beatrice!"  ex 
claimed  her  aunt  reprovingly.  "  I  am  afraid 
your  uncle  is  teaching  you  extravagance  and 
a  love  of  dress." 

"  Oh !  no,  aunty  ;  but  we  went  out  so  much, 
I  had  to  have  a  variety,  you  know,"  said  Be 
atrice  apologetically  ;  and  while  her  aunt  still 
examined  the  dresses  with  disapproving  admi 
ration,  Nancy  opened  the  door  to  say : 

"  Jacob  wants  to  know  if  you're  going  into 
the  woods  with  him,  Beatrice.  He's  'most 
ready." 

"  Say  Miss  Beatrice,  Nancy,"  suggested  her 
mistress  sharply  ;  "  and  don't  wait  with  your 
oven  cooling.  I  heard  you  taking  out  the  fire 
ten  minutes  ago.  What  about  the  woods, 
Trix  ?" 

"  Oh !  I  am  going,  certainly,"  said  Beatrice, 
hastily  bundling  the  packages  back  into  the 
trunk. 

"  Not  in  that  dress,  Beatrice  !" 

"  No,  indeed,  aunty.  I  saw  one  of  my  last 
winter's  poplins  in  the  closet  of  my  cham 
ber." 

And  Miss  Wansted,  disappearing  before  fur 
ther  disapproval  could  be  spoken,  presently 
returned,  dressed  in  a  simple  short  dress  and 
a  warm  coat. 

"  See  here,  aunty,"  said  she,  mischievously 
raising  her  skirts  high  enough  to  show  a  very 
jaunty  pair  of  Knickerbockers  nearly  meet 
ing  the  tops  of  her  high  Polish  boots. 

"  Well,  I  never !  Why,  Beatrice  Wansted, 
if  I  shouldn't  be  ashamed  !"  exclaimed  the 
spinster,  turning  nearly  as  scarlet  as  the  ob 
noxious  garments. 

"  Why,  aunty  !  why  should  1  be  ashamed  ?" 
laughed  Beatrice. 

"  Why,  to  wear  those  things.'  Almost  like 
— really,  now,  they  do  remind  me " 

"  Of  what,  aunty  1" 

"Why,  child,  a  gentleman's  pantaloons," 
whispered  Miss  Bar"stow,  the  scarlet  turning 
crimson. 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,  aunty!  Pantaloons  are 
tight  to  the  leg.  and  tie  with  strings  round  the 
ankles  ;  and  what  gentlemen  wear  are  called 


trowsers ;  and  these  are  nothing  like  either, 
and  are  called  Knickerbockers." 

"  Beatrice !  say  limbs,  and  not  legs ;  and 
don't  talk  so  glibly  about  things  no  young 
woman  should  ever  mention,''  said  Miss  Bar- 
stow  severely. 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 
THE  CAPTAIN'S  PURCHASE. 

"ALL  ready,  Jacob?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  all  ready,"  said  Jacob,  who 
was  adjusting  an  inverted  soap-box  upon  the 
middle  of  his  ox-sled,  and  covering  it  with  a 
warmly-lined  buffalo-robe. 

"  There,  that's  for  you  to  set  on,"  said  he, 
when  all  was  ready. 

"  How  charming  !  I  expected  to  stand  up 
and  hold  on  to  one  of  the  stakes,"  laughed 
Beatrice,  seating  herself  upon  her  extempore 
throne,  and  looking  more  than  ever  lovely, 
with  the  bright  color  of  the  frosty  morning 
upon  cheek  and  lip,  and  her  eyes  sparkling 
like  sunbeams  beneath  the  brim  of  the  little 
round  hat  whose  black  plumes  contrasted  so 
charmingly  with  the  gold-brown  braids  they 
shaded. 

So  dimly  perceived  Jacob,  standing  a  mo 
ment  beside  the  sled,  to  draw  on  his  blue  and 
white  mittens,  patriotically  fringed  with  red, 
Mrs.  Barstow's  handiwork  ;  but  Jacob  would 
have  thought  it  unpardonably  "  sarcy  "  to  have 
intimated  his  admiration  in  the  most  distant 
manner,  and  so  went  silently  forward  to  his 
oxen's  heads,  and  with  a  jerk  and  a  creak  the 
sled  started,  cutting  its  way  through  the 
softened  snow  with  a  dull,  crunching  sound, 
quite  different  from  the  crisp  crackle  of  mid 
winter  drifts,  or  the  sharp  creak  made  by 
passing  over  a  snow-road  in  the  coldest  and 
heaviest  of  frozen  weather. 

"  Where  are  you  cutting  wood  now?"  asked 
Miss  Wansted,  when,  after  piloting  his  team 
into  the  road,  Jacob  stepped  upon  the  sled 
and  stood  there,  Colossus-like. 

"  I've  been  cutting  up  to  the  Captain's  Pur 
chase.  I  a'n't  cutting  now — I'm  hauling.  You 
wouldn't  have  wanted  to  go  and  see  me  chop 
all  day,  I  reckon,"  said  Jacob,  with  a  laugh. 
"  All  I've  got  to  do  now  is  to  load  up  and 
turn  right  round.  We'll  be  home  to  dinner." 

Beatrice  did  not  reply.  A  sudden  cloud 
had  come  over  both  face  and  mood,  and  she 
sat  looking  straight  before  her  with  wide, 
sad  eyes. 

The  Captain's  Purchase,  a  tract  of  wood 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


65 


land  so  named  in  the  old  records,  and  so 
called  to-day,  although  tradition  has  no  story 
to  tell  of  either  captain  or  purchase — not  so 
much  as  the  name  of  the  one,  or  the  price  of  the 
other — the  Captain's  Purchase  was  the  place 
where  the  May-flowers  bloomed  earliest,  the 
lovely,  pink-flushed,  odorous  Epig&a  repens, 
which  a  perverse  world  will  call  trailing  ar 
butus,  and  thither  to  gather  them  had  she 
gone  with  Marston  Brent  in  the  sweet  days 
that  were  no  more. 

"No  more,  no  more  forever,"  whispered 
Beatrice,  her  sad  eyes  searching  field  and 
wood  and  sky  for  a  contradiction  to  the 
mournful  prophecy,  and  finding  none.  And 
then  pressing  in  at  the  door  thus  set  ajar 
came  trooping  the  memories  she  had  believed 
at  rest — memories  of  tender  words,  of  loving 
looks,  of  sweet  hopes,  and  half-formed  plans 
of  life,  of  all  the  joy  that  might  have  been, 
and  now  should  never  be.  And  whose  fault 
that  it  should  never  be  ?  "  Not  mine,"  said  the 
girl's  softened  heart.  "  For  did  I  not  humble 
myself,  and  give  up  all  for  love  of  him  ?  Did 
I  not  even  ask  him  to  let  me  come  to  him  in  the 
home  he  had  chosen  ?"  "  And,"  asked  Pride, 
"  what  did  he  say  ?  Did  he  not  thrust  me  back 
and  refuse  the  love  I  offered  him,  and  hold  me 
to  my  word  in  my  own  despite  ?  And  is  it  for 
such  a  man  that  I  am  mourning  now,  and 
feeling  that  because  he  is  lost,  all  else  is  valu- 
less  ?  O  shame,  shame !  that  any  woman 
should  so  forget  woman's  value  !  If  Marston 
Brent  cared  more  for  his  own  will  than  for 
me,  I  care  more  for  those  late  leaves  whirling 
to  the  ground  than  for  Marston  Brent." 

And  wrenching  herself  away  from  even 
memory  of  him,  Beatrice  turned  to  her  com 
panion,  who,  softly  whistling  and  holding  to 
one  of  the  stakes  of  the  ox-sled,  viewed  the 
rapidly  clouding  skies  with  a  speculative  eye. 

"  Going  to  have  a  change  o'  weather,  sud 
den,"  said  Jacob,  perceiving  that  Miss  Wan- 
sted  was  ready  for  conversation. 

"  More  snow  ?"  asked  she  languidly. 

"  I  guess  mora  like  we  shall  have  rain. 
The  air's  most  too  soft  for  snow.  Eain  '11 
play  the  very  old  mischief  with  the  goin', 
there's  such  a  heft  o'  snow  on  the  ground." 

"  Yes.  I  am  afraid  it  would  prevent  my 
aunt's  party  to-morrow,"  said  Beatrice,  rais 
ing  her  eyes  to  the  soft  white  clouds  fast 
shutting  out  the  blue  of  heaven. 

"  Quiltin'-bee,  a'n't  it?" 

"  Yes,  I  believe  so." 
5 


"  They'll  come  fast  enough,  women-folks 
will,"  said  Jacob,  laughing  a  little,  and  rolling 
his  eyes  quizzically  upon  the  face  of  his  com 
panion.  "  You  see  they  don't  stir  about  so 
much  as  men-folks,  and  toward  the  end  o' 
winter  they  get  so  sort  o'  stalled  stopping  in 
the  house,  that  they'd  go  anywhere's  for  a 
change.  I  declare  I  think  sometimes,  if  Old 
Nick  was  to  give  a  tea-party  on  top  of  Moloch 
Mountain  in  Febooary,  he'd  get  as  many  to 
set  down  as  he'd  find  cups  and  saucers  for. 
You'll  see  there  won't  no  one  stop  away  from 
the  bee  to-morrer,  rain  or  shine,  except  them 
as  can't  get  their  men-folks  to  bring  'em,  and 
can't  hitch  on  to  no  one  else's  team." 

"  Why,  Jacob,  it  isn't  a  bit  polite  to  me  to 
make  fun  of  women-folks,"  said  Beatrice  with 
dancing  eyes. 

"  Land  o'  Goshen,  ma'am,  I  don't  mean  you 
when  I  talk  about  women-folks.  You're  alto 
gether  different,"  said  Jacob  gravely ;  and, 
after  considering  the  point,  added  : 

"  You  see,  ma'am,  you've  had  advantages, 
and  been  round,  and  haven't  had  to  buckle 
to't,  and  work  for  a  living,  same  as  they 
have ;  and  I  don't  see,  for  my  part,  why  a 
woman,  if  she  has  advantages,  and  im 
proves  'em,  a'n?t  ekil  to  men — some  men." 

"  Why,  yes— some  men,  as  you  say,  Jacob  ; 
and,  Jacob,  I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you  for 
your  favorable  opinion,  and  will  present  you 
with  a  vote  of  thanks  in  behalf  of  the  rest  of 
the  sisterhood ;  and  the  first  woman's-righta 
convention  that  I  attend  I  will  nominate  you 
as  chairman.  And  now,  Jacob,  I  want  to 
know  how  much  of  the  Captain's  Purchase 
you  have  cut  over  this  winter,  and  what  the 
wood  is  worth  a  cord,  and  how  much  you 
have  hauled  to  market,  and  how  much  home, 
and  how  much  remains  upon  the  ground." 

"  Well,  that's  a  good  many  questions  to 
answer  all  to  once,"  said  Jacob,  scratching  his 
head  beneath  his  fur-cap,  and  glancing  a  little 
uneasily  at  the  sparkling  and  satirical  face 
upraised  toward  him. 

"  However,  I'll  try  :  I've  cat  well  on  to  three 
acres  of  the  Purchase,  and  have  corded  up 
about  a  hundred  cord,  maybe  a  hundred  and 
a  quarter,  and " 

"  How  much  is  that  to  each  acre,  Jacob  ?" 

"Each  acre?  Well,  it's  about  —  about — 
why  say  forty  cord  to  each  acre." 

"  Oh !  no,  Jacob !  A  third  of  a  hundred  is  not 
forty,  and  a  third  of  a  hundred  and  twenty- 
five  is  more  than  forty." 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


"  I  said  about  that ;  forty's  nigh  enough," 
said  Jacob  with  dignity. 

And  Beatrice  pursued  her  inquiries,  the 
smile  she  banished  from  her  lips  dancing  in 
her  eyes : 

"  Well,  how  much  is  it  worth  a  cord, 
Jacob  ?" 

"  Why,  that's  accordin'  as  how  the  wood 
is.  First-rate  hard  wood,  white-oak,  with  a 
sprinklin'  o'  walnut  's  worth  six  dollars,  and 
pine's  worth  four,  and  oak-trash's  worth  two, 
and  pine-trash's  worth  one." 

"  And  if  the  hundred  or  a  hundred  and  a 
quarter  cords  you've  cut  this  winter  are  about 


"  Here  we  be  at  (fie  Captain's  Purchase.'1'1 

equally  divided  into  those  four  kinds,  how 
much  are  they  all  worth  ?".  asked  Beatrice 
demurely. 

But  a  dim  suspicion  that  he  was  being  un 
fairly  dealt  by  entered  with  the  question  into 
Jacob's  brain,  and,  after  a  moment's  considera 
tion,  he  replied  dryly  : 

"That  sum's  in  Green  leafs  first  part,  a'n't 
it  ?  We'll  drive  round  by  the  school-house 
coming  home,  and  I'll  get  my  little  brother  to 
do  it  for  you." 

"  Thank  you,  Jacob  ;  but  I  don't  think  you 
need  your  little  brother  to  help  you  through," 


said  Beatrice,  laughing  so  heartily  at  her  own 
expense  that  even  the  sensitive  pride  of  the 
New-England  yeoman,  the  most  sensitive  of 
all  mankind,  was  soothed,  and  Jacob  joined 
in  the  laugh. 

"  Here  we  be  at  the  Captain's  Purchase," 
said  he,  jumping  off  the  sled,  and  throwing 
down  some  bars  closing  the  entrance  to  a 
wood  road,  deep  embowered  .in  greenery  when 
Beatrice  last  beheld  it,  and  though  the  scene 
was  "  now  changed  to  winter  frore,"  it  held 
too  close  a  likeness  to  that  she  so  well  remem 
bered  to  be  denied  at  least  its  moment  of 
silent  recognition.  So,  Beatrice,  her  face  sud 
denly  pale  and  still,  sat  silent,  fighting  down 
those  memories  laid  but  now,  and  again  arisen, 
until  Jacob  halted  his  oxen  at  the  edge  of  a 
large  clearing  covered  with  corded  piles  of 
wood,  while  the  ground  between  was  strewn 
with  limbs  and  leaves,  and  splinters  and 
chips,  as  a  battle-field  with  the  smaller  relics 
of  the  strife,  after  the  bodies  have  been  re 
moved. 

"  Guess  you'd  better  get  off  now,  ma'am," 
said  he  very  kindly,  for  the  honest  fellow  had 
noted  the  sudden  change  in  his  companion's 
mood,  and  attributed  it  to  mortification  at  his 
rebuff. 

"  I'm  agoing  to  turn  the  team  in  among  the 
brush,  and  it'll  be  awful  jolty,  and  then  ag'in 
I've  got  to  begin  to  load  right  away.  Sorry  to 
disturb  you." 

"  Oh !  not  at  all,  Jacob  ;  don't  apologize," 
said  Beatrice  absently  ;  and,  accepting  Jacob's 
offered  hand,  she  stepped  lightly  to  the  ground, 
and  stood  looking  about  her,  while  the  man 
arranged  the  box  and  buffalo  robe  close  be 
side  her. 

"  There,  you  can  set  right  down  again,  and 
make  believe  you're  riding,"  said  he  sooth 
ingly.  "  Or,  if  you'd  rather,  you  can  walk 
about  a  little.  There  a'n't  much  to  see  in  the 
woods  this  time  o'  year,  but  maybe  you  can 
find  some  checkerberries  where  the  snow  has 
melted  off,  or  maybe  a  squirrel-hole  with 
some  nuts  in  it.  I'll  be  as  quick  as  I  can." 

"  Oh !  don't  trouble  about  me,  Jacob,"  replied 
Beatrice,  rousing  herself  with  an  effort ;  "  I 
am  used  to  the  woods,  and  know  how  to  amuse 
myself,  winter  or  summer.  I  shall  run  about 
and  get  warm  while  you  are  loading,  unless 
you  want  my  help." 

"Your  help,  ma'am!  Lord  love  you,  no," 
laughed  Jacob,  picking  up  his  ox-goad,  and 
bawling  directions  to  his  team,  Calvin  and 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


67 


Luther,  whom  the  deacon  had  so  named  be 
cause  he  said  he  would  make  those  two  emi 
nent  personages  draw  together  somehow. 

Left  to  herself,  Beatrice  strolled  along  the 
road,  until,  having  crossed  the  clearing,  it 
struck  into  the  woods  at  the  other  side,  and 
so  soon  as  she  was  out  of  sight,  perched  her 
self  upon  the  stump  of  a  monster  pine,  and 
stood  like  a  statue  upon  its  pedestal,  admiring 
the  scene  before  her,  and  resolutely  banishing 
once  more  all  thoughts  but  those  connected 
with  it.  From  her  position,  near  the  top  of  a 
high  hill,  she  commanded  the  valley  below, 
with  its  little  frozen  pond,  where  in  summer 
bloomed  the  whitest  lilies  ever  known,  and 
around  whose  margin  grew  the  sweet,  white 
swamp  azalia,  and  its  rarer  rose-colored  sister, 
and  as  she  saw  the  spot,  Beatrice  remembered 

the  great  bouquets  that  she  had  received 

No,  that  memory  was  among  the  forbidden, 
and  she  turned  to  admire,  instead,  the  smoke- 
like  tracery  of  the  birch-trees  fringing  the  bor 
der  of  the  swamp  below  the  chestnut  wood — 
the  chestnut  wood  where  she  had  nutted  many 
a  day  in  those  by-gone  years  ;  and  Beatrice, 
stepping  impatiently  from  her  pedestal,  hast 
ened  on  through  the  wood,  intent  only  now 
upon  escape  from  that  army  of  phantoms 
which  environed  her. 

She  saw  no  longer  the  strange,  still  beauty 
of  the  winter  woods,  forgot  to  note  the  soft 
shades  of  color  upon  twig,  and  trunk,  and 
clinging  withered  leaves,  the  beauty  of  form, 
hidden  in  summer,  and  now  displayed  so 
vividly,  as  the  naked  tree-tops  cut  the  sky, 
and  long  arcades  lengthened  through  the 
forest,  impenetrable  to  the  eye  in  summer 
time.  The  saucy  squirrel  crossed  her  path, 
or  stood  chattering  upon  the  branches  close 
above  her  head ;  the  rabbit  peered  from  his 
burrow,  with  round,  startled  eyes  ;  the  par 
tridge  rose  with  startling  whir-r-r-r  from  al 
most  beneath  her  feet ;  the  fox,  stealing 
through  the  coverts  of  the  wood,  peered  at 
her  from  beneath  sheltering  twigs — but  Be 
atrice  heard  not,  saw  not,  felt  only  that  the 
past  was  present  still,  and  that  the  future  held 
no  hope  of  forgetfulness. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 
THE  GUEST  OF  THE  OLD  GARRISON. 

"  BE  you  ready,  ma'am  ?    If  you  be,  I  be." 
It  was  Jacob's  voice  ;  and  Beatrice,  raising 
her  eyes  from  the  ground,  discovered  that  she 
had  returned  in  a  circle  to  the  point  whence 


she  had  started,  and  was  just  entering  the 
clearing  when  met  by  Jacob,  who  had  set  out 
to  look  for  her. 

"What!  have  you  loaded  your  sled  al 
ready  ?''  asked  she,  in  some  surprise. 

"  Sartain  I  have,  and  didn't  work  so  dread 
ful  smart,  neither.  Now,  be  you  going  to  ride 
on  the  load  ?" 

"  Oh  !  yes.  That  was  what  I  came  for,  you 
know." 

"  Well,  I've  driven  the  steers  out  into  the 
road,  and  fixed  the  buffalo  on  as  well  as  I 
could.  The  box  we'll  leave  up  here  till  an 
other  time.  Strange  if  we  get  home  before  the 
rain  comes  on." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  have  kept  you  waiting." 

"  Oh  !•  that  a'n't  of  no  account  if  you  don't 
mind  the  resk  of  a  wetting.  I  am  sorry  we 
haven't  got  no  umberill.  There,  set  your  foot 
right  in  there  ;  I  left  a  kind  of  a  step  on  pur 
pose,  and — there  you  be! — you're  spry  on  your 
feet,  any  way,  ma'am." 

"  All  right,  Jacob.  This  is  a  very  nice  seat, 
and  I  can  see  the  whole  country  around." 

"  Yes,  it's  ekil  to  being  on  top  of  a  stage 
coach,  and  some  folks  won't  never  go  inside  if 
they  can  help  it." 

"  I  am  one  of  those  folks,  Jacob.  I  always 
ride  over  from  Bloom  on  the  top  of  the  coach 
when  they  will  let  me." 

"  Do !  Well,  I've  heerd  so,  but  I  didn't 
know.  They  say  they'll  lay  the  railroad  from 
Bloom  to  Milvorliaven  some  time,  and  then 
there  won't  be  no  stage-coach  travel." 

"  Oh !  I  hope  not !  I  hope  no  railway  will 
ever  come  nearer  to  the  Old  Garrison  House 
than  now,"  said  Beatrice,  with  energy. 

"  Waal  now ;  why  not  ?" 

"Oh!  because  there  are  driving,  growing 
places  enough  all  over  the  country  ;  and  Mil- 
vor  is  just  as  it  has  always  been,  and  just  as  I 
should  like  to  have  it  always  remain.  I  don't 
want  the  march  of  improvement  to  trample 
down  the  quiet  old  ways,  and  slow,  sleepy 
fashions  of  the  place." 

Jacob  considered  the  point  in  silence  for 
several  moments,  and  then,  with  a  comical 
twist  of  his  dry  face,  slowly  said  : 

'  That  reminds  me  of  something  I  read  in 
a  book  Miss  Rachel  loaned  me  a  while  ago. 
It  was  the  History  of  England,  I  believe,  and 
it  told  about  a  king  that  liked  every  thing 
just  as  it  always  was  ;  and  so  he  turned  a  lot 
of  folks  out  of  their  housen,  and  pulled  up 
their  improvements,  and  put  the  whole  dees- 


68 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


trie'  back  into  wild  land,  as  nigli  as  he  could 
get  it ;  and  had  a  lot  of  deer  and  varmint 
turned  in,  and  then  he  used  to  go  in  and  hunt 
them,  just  as  folks  has  to  in  a  wild  country  to 
clear  the  way  for  a  settlement.  Your  idee 
about  not  letting  the  railroad  come  through 
Milvor  is  suthin'  like  that  king's,  a'n't  it  ?" 

"  No ;  he  was  a  revolutionist,  and  I  am  a 
conservative — two  quite  opposite  creatures. 
However,  I  do  not  imagine  that  my  fancies  or 
•wishes  will  have  much  effect  upon  the  prog 
ress  of  civilization  and  the  iron-horse.  You 
will  have  your  railway,  I  don't  doubt." 

"  Hi,  Calvin  !  Gee,  Luther !  Gee  !  There's 
a  team  coming  up  behind,  and  they  think  they 
must  swerve  out  to  make  room  for  it.  I  never 
see  critters  think  as  quick  as  this  yoke  o' 
steers — never.  There !  now  that  feller  can 
pass  if  he's  handy  with  his  horse." 

The  jingle  of  sleigh-bells,  which  for  some 
moments  had  been  growing  louder  and  loud 
er  as  the  swift  horse  overtook  the  ox-team, 
suddenly  ceased,  and  a  voice  close  behind  the 
load  called  out  pleasantly  enough  : 

"  Can  I  pass  there,  my  man  ?" 

'•  Yes,  I  reckon  you  can,"  replied  Jacob, 
with  slightly  surly  independence ;  and  Be 
atrice,  startled  at  the  voice,  looked  down  from 
her  elevation  to  meet  the  wondering  eyes  of 
Mr.  Monckton. 

"  Miss  Wansted !" 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Monckton,  it  is  really  I." 

"  You  should  have  invited  your  friends  to 
your  coronation — or  rather  to  your  enthrone 
ment." 

"  I  am  afraid  Milvor  would  not  have  con 
tained  them." 

"  What  you  say  sarcastically  we  should  say 
seriously  ;  but  having  asserted  yourself,  won't 
you  descend  and  accept  a  share  of  my  humble 
equipage  V" ' 

"Oh!  no,  thank  you.  I  don't  believe  in 
descending  when  one  can  remain  elevated. 
Will  you  pass  us?" 

"  Why,  no,  thank  you,  I  will  follow — that 
is,  if  you  will  permit  me  to  accompany  you 
home.  I  was  on  my  way  to  call  upon  you." 

"  We  shall  be  most  happy,  certainly.  Drive 
on,  if  you  please,  Jacob." 

And  Beatrice,  not  attempting  to  conceal  her 
dissatisfaction,  turned  her  head  away  from  the 
self-invited  guest,  and  fixed  her  attention  upon 
the  oxen. 

Mr.  Monckton,  too  much  a  man  of  the  world 
to  be  discomfited,  or  to  appear  conscious  of  any 


annoyance,  entered  into  an  animated  conver 
sation  with  the  youth  who  drove  him  ;  and 
nothing  fhrther  passed  between  the  lately  fa 
miliar  friends,  until  both  equipages  stopped  in 
the  open  space  at  the  southern  front  of  the 
old  house.  v 

"  Now,  ma'am,  I'll  help  you  down,"  began 
Jacob,  pulling  off  his  mittens,  wiping  his  nose, 
and  settling  his  fur  cap  firmly  upon  his  head. 

"  Permit  me,  Miss  Wansted,"  interposed  Mr. 
Monckton. 

"  Thank  you,  but  Jacob  is  the  cavalier  of 
this  occasion,"  said  Beatrice,  deftly  placing  one 
foot  in  the  interstices  of  the  load,  and  resting 
her  little  hands  upon  the  shoulders  of  the 
woodman,  who,  grasping  her  slender  waist, 
swung  her  lightly  to  the  ground. 

"  I  must  congratulate  Jacob  both  upon  his 
opportunities  and  his  mode  of  improving  them," 
laughed  Mr.  Monckton,  meeting  Beatrice,  as 
she  regained  her  feet,  with  a  hand  so  cordially 
extended  that  she  could  not  have  refused  it 
had  she  tried. 

"  Yes,  he  is  a  capital  escort.  Jacob,  I  have 
had  a  very  nice  drive  and  pleasant  time.  I 
shall  go  with  you  again  some  time." 

"  Any  time  that  suits  you,  ma'am.  It'll  al 
ways  be  agreeable  to  me,"  said  Jacob,  with 
grave  courtesy  ;  and  Miss  Wansted  led  the 
way  to  the  house. 

In  the  east  room,  before  the  brightly-blazing 
fire,  sat  the  old  people,  while  Rachel,  just  ap 
pearing  at  the  inner  door,  drew  hastily  back 
at  sight  of  a  stranger. 

"  This  is  Mr.  Monckton,  grandfather,  a 
friend  of  Uncle  Israel's ;  my  grandfather, 
Deacon  Barstow,  Mr.  Monckton.  My  grand 
mother." 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  any  friend  of  my  son's. 
Take  off  your  coat,  sir,  and  sit  to  the  fire. 
Beatrice,  will  you  please  tell  Jacob  to  put  up 
the  gentleman's  horse  ?" 

"  Thank  you,  sir,  thank  you  extremely,  but 
I  do  not  think  it  worth  while  to  put  up  the 
horse  for  the  little  while  I  have  to  stay,"  be 
gan  Mr.  Monckton  ;  but  Mrs.  Barstow  broke 
in  upon  his  excuses  with  voluble  hospitality. 

"  You  must  stay  the  night,  sir — of  course 
you  must  stay  the  night.  Nobody  ever  comes 
to  Milvor  for  less  than  one  night,  for  it  would 
not  be  worth  the  journey,  especially  in  winter 
time.  D^d  you  drive  over  from  Bloom,  Mr. 
Monckton  ?" 

"  Yes,  madam.  Finding  myself  in  this  part 
of  the  country,  I  thought  I  would  run  over 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


69 


and  see  the  Old  Garrison  House,  of  which  I 
have  heard  so  much — make  the  acquaintance 
of  my  friend  Barstow's  family,  and  call  upon 
Miss  Wansted." 

"  That's  right,  and  I'm  real  glad  you  came," 
said  the  grandmother,  glancing  around  to  see 
that  Beatrice  had  left  the  room  before  she  ad 
ded  :  "  Nor  I  don't  blame-  any  body  for  want 
ing  to  see  our  Trix,  for  she's  just  about  as  nice 
a  little  girl  as  you'll  find  anywhere." 

To  this  expression  of  opinion,  Mr.  Monck- 
ton  was  spared  the  perplexity  of  reply  by  the 
entrance  of  Miss  Barstow,  who,  like  her  par 
ents,  welcomed  the  unexpected  guest  with  a 
cordial  hospitality  more  often  found,  perhaps, 
upon  stage-routes  than  railroad-lines. 

Mr.  Monckton,  well  pleased,  and  equal  to  the 
occasion,  seated  himself  between  the  patriarch 
and  his  wife ;  talked  ethics,  politic^,  traditions, 
with  the  former ;  parried  pleasantly  enough 
the  downright  questions  of  the  latter  upon  his 
personal  affairs,  and  repaid  them  with  bits  of 
gossip  disguised  as  news.  Miss  Rachel,  com 
ing  and  going  upon  her  household  affairs,  felt 
grateful  in  her  heart  to  the  guest  who  gave 
"  the  old  folks  "  so  pleasant  an  hour  with  BO 
little  apparent  effort  ;  and  when  Mr.  Monck 
ton  suddenly  appealed  to  herself  upon  some 
question  of  taste,  she  was  ready  to  respond 
with  her  most  gracious  smile. 

Matters  were  in  this  prosperous  condition 
when  the  sound  of  the  dinner-bell  summoned 
the  family  to  the  long  low-ceiled  room  at  the 
back  of  the  house,  once  used  as  a  kitchen,  but 
converted  by  Miss  Rachel  into  a  dining-room. 

"  The  Lord  make  us  all  truly  thankful  for 
the  bounty  we  are  about  to  receive,"  said  the 
deacon,  reverently  bowing  his  silvered  head  ; 
and  then  Mr.  Monckton  seated  himself  beside 
Beatrice,  who,  somewhat  paler  and  stiller  than 
her  wont,  awaited  the  family  in  the  dining- 
room. 

"  Perhaps  you  don't  like  b'iled  dish,  Mr. 
Monckton?"  said  Mrs.  Barstow,  hospitably 
piling  her  guest's  plate  ;  "  but  it's  our  regu 
lar  Wednesday  dinner,  and  has  been  for  fifty 
years.  Beef  and  pork,  and  turnips,  and  pota 
toes,  and  cabbage,  and  carrots,  and  onions — 
we've  had  'em  all  every  Wednesday,  the  year 
through,  for  fifty  years,  and  I  suppose  we 
shall  every  Wednesday — well,  for  as  many 
years  as  we  have  to  live." 

"  And  may  they  be  many,"  replied  Monck 
ton,  receiving  his  loaded  plate  with  an  admir 
ing  gesture.  "  Oh !  yes,"  added  he,  "  I  think 


this  is  rather  our  national  dish,  after  all — in 
herited,  to  be  sure,  from  English  rural  fash 
ion  ;  but  the  English  pot  is  never  BO  gener 
ously  filled  or  so  often  replenished  as  ours. 
I  remember  a  story  of  my  grandmother's, 
about  one  of  her  own  boiled  dinners.  My 
grandfather  was  an  ambitious  sort  of  man, 
whose  whole  heart  was  given  to  raising  im 
mense  crops,  and  carrying  on  more  land  than 
his  neighbors,  so  that  he  was  rather  apt  to 
neglect  the  smaller  details  of  household  man 
agement,  and  leave  to  my  grandmother  and 
her  woman  more  than  their  share  of  labor. 
One  morning,  just  as  he  was  setting  off  for 
the  fields  with  his  laborers,  my  grandmother 
called  him  back. 

"  '  Mr.  Monckton,'  said  she,  '  I  have  no  wood 
to  burn  to-day.  What  shall  I  do  ?' 

"  '  Oh  !  send  Lois  round  to  pick  up  some,' 
said  the  good  man,  making  a  stride  toward 
the  door. 

"  '  But  she  has  picked  up  all  she  can  find.' 

" '  Then  let  her  break  up  some  old  stuff.' 

"  '  But  she  has  broken  up  every  thing  al 
ready.' 

"  '  Oh  !  well,  then,  do  the  next  best  thing — 
I  must  be  off,'  said  the  farmer  ;  and  off  he 
was,  whistling  as  he  went,  and  no  doubt  won 
dering  in  his  heart  what  that  next  best  thing 
would  tum  out  to  be. 

"  Noon  came,  and  with  it  came  my  grand 
father  and  his  four  hungry  laborers.  My 
grandmother  stood  in  the  kitchen,  spinning  on 
her  great  wheel,  and  singing  a  pleasant  little 
ditty ;  Lois  was  scouring  tins  in  the  back 
room,  and  the  cat  sat  purring  on  the  hearth, 
before  a  black  and  fireless  chimney,  while  the 
table  cat  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  spread  for 
dinner,  but  with  empty  dishes. 

"  '  Well,  wife,  here  we  are,'  said  my  grand 
father  cheerily. 

'"So  I  see,'  replied  she  placidly.  '  Have 
you  had  a  good  morning  in  the  corn-field  ?' 

"'Why,  yes,  so-so.  But  where  is  the  din 
ner?' 

" '  In  the  pot  on  the  door-step.  Won't  you 
see  if  it  is  done  ?' 

"  And  on  the  door-step,  to  be  sure,  sat  the 
great  iron  pot,  nicely  covered,  but  not  looking 
particularly  steamy.  My  grandfather  raised 
the  cover,  and  there  lay  all  the  ingredients  of 
such  a  dinner  as  we  have  before  us — everj 
thing  prepared  in  the  nicest  manner,  and  the 
pot  filled  with  the  clearest  of  water,  and  all  as 
raw  as  they  had  ever  been.  My  grandfather 


70 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


stared,  and  my  grandmother  joined  another 
roll  to  the  yarn  upon  her  distaff,  and  began 
another  verse  of  her  song. 

" '  Why,  woman,  what  does  this  mean  ?'  be 
gan  my  grandfather  indignantly.  '  This  din 
ner  isn't  cooked  at  all !' 

" '  Dear  me !  is  it  not  ?'  asked  the  good  wife 
in  pretended  astonishment.     '  Why,  it  has  set 
in  the  sun  this  four  hours.' 
"  '  Set  in  the  sun !' 

" '  Yes,  you  told  me  to  try  the  next  best 
thing  to  having  a  fire,  and  I  thought  setting 
jny  dinner  in  the  sun  was  about  that.' 

"  My  grandfather  stood  doubtful  for  a  mo 
ment  ;  but  finally  his  sense  of  humor  over 
came  his  sense  of  injury,  and  he  laughed 
aloud.  Then  picking  up  his  hat,  he  said : 

" '  Come,  boys,  we  might  as  well  start  for 
the  woods.  We  shall  have  no  dinner  till 
we've  earned  it,  I  perceive.' 

" '  Won't  you  have  some  bread  and  cheese 
before  you  go  ?'  asked  my  grandmother,  gen 
erous  in  her  victory,  as  women  almost  always 
are.  And  so  she  won  the  day." 

"  So  that  was  your  grandfather  and  grand 
mother,  Mr.  Monckton,"    said  Mrs.  Barstow, 
when   the  laugh  which    chorused  the  story 
was  over  ;  "  and  they  were  farmers  ?" 
"  Yes,  madam,  I  am  proud  to  say  so." 
"  Then  you  think  well  of  farming  ?" 
"  It  was  the  condition  of  man  next  to  Para 
dise,  madam." 

"  But  imposed  upon  man  as  a  punishment 
and  a  curse,"  said  the  deacon  dryly. 

"Your  grandmother  was  a  real  smart  wom 
an,"  pursued  Mrs.  Barstow  opportunely. 
"Can't  you  tell  us  some  more  of  her  doings?" 
"  One  more  anecdote  of  the  same  sort  occurs 
to  me,"  said  Mr.  Monckton,  smiling  compla 
cently. 

"  The  cellar-stairs  in  the  old  farm-house 
had  become  broken  and  so  unsafe  that  my 
grandmother  besieged  her  husband,  early  and 
late,  to  repair  them,  lest  some  accident  should 
happen.  He  always  promised  to  do  so,  and 
always  forgot  to  fulfil  the  promise.  At  last, 
one  day,  my  grandmother  fell  in  going  down, 
and  spilled  the  milk  she  was  carrying. 

"  '  Are  you  hurt  T  asked  my  grandfather, 
smoking  his  pipe  beside  the  fire. 

"  '  No  matter  whether  I  am  or  not,'  return 

ed  the  angry  housewife,  reappearing  with  her 

empty  pan.     '  That  is  the  last  time  I  carry 

milk  down  those  stairs  until  they  are  mended  !' 

" '  Please  yourself,  and  find  the  next  best 


way  to  get  it  down,'  said  the  husband,  a  little 
vexed  at  her  tone. 

'•' '  I  will,'  said  my  grandmother,  and  was  as 
good  as  her  word.  The  next  evening,  my 
grandfather  went  down  cellar  to  draw  some 
cider. 

"  '  What  in  thunder  !'  exclaimed  he — noth 
ing  worse,  1  assure  you,  madam,  for  he  was 
not  a  profane  man.  '  What  in  thunder  is  the 
matter  here  1  Why,  woman,  your  milk  is  all 
over  the  cellar-bottom !' 

" '  Is  it  f  replied  my  grandmother  tranquil 
ly.  '  Well,  I  think  that  is  likely  enough,  fall 
ing  so  far.' 

"  '  Failing  so  far !    What  do  you  mean  ?' 

" '  Why,  you  know  I  said  I  shouldn't  carry 
the  milk  over  those  broken  stairs  again,  and 
you  told  me  to  try  the  next  best  way  of  get 
ting  it  down,  so  I  took  up  a  board  in  the 
kitchen-flo5r,  threw  down  the  pans,  and  then 
strained  the  milk  down  into  them.' 

"  The  cellar-stairs  were  mended  next  day." 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 
RECONCILIATION. 

THE  eight-day  clock  in  the  corner  of  the 
east  room  was  on  the  stroke  of  ten,  and  the 
old  people  were  already  deep  in  their  punc 
tual  slumbers.  Miss  Rachel,  aided  by  Nancy, 
was  engaged  in  some  last  preparation  for  the 
morrow,  and  Beatrice  remained  alone  with 
Mr.  Monckton  for  the  first  time  since  his 
arrival . 

"  Do  you  know  why  I  came  here  to-day  ?" 
asked  he,  after  five  minutes'  silence  had  divided 
his  words  from  the  gay  jest  he  had  last  ut 
tered. 

"  To  try  your  adaptive  powers  in  a  new  di 
rection,  perhaps." 

"  Why  are  you  so  bitter  with  me  ?  I  came 
because  you  would  not  see  me  the  last  time 
I  called  at  your  uncle's  house.  You  have  not 
seen  me  since  the  evening  when  I  displeased 
you." 

"  Not  displeased  me  so  much  as " 

"  Well  ?" 

"  Shocked  me,  disillusionized  me  —  why 
should  I  fear  to  say  it  ? — told  me  a  lie." 

"Your  words  are  something  more  than  cor 
dial,  Miss  Wansted,  and  they  humiliate  me, 
as  you  mean  that  they  should.  Still,  I  thank 
you  for  speaking  them,  for  any  thing  is  less 
deadly  to  friendship  than  silent  displeasure." 

"Friendship?" 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


"  Yes  ;  you  gave  me  yours." 

"  Cannot  1  reclaim  it  ?" 

"  Not  if  it  was  true  friendship.  My  theory 
is  that  friendship  means  the  complete  har 
mony  of  two  natures — not  to  be  discovered  in 
a  moment,  or  perhaps  in  a  year  of  study,  but 
once  perceived,  not  to  be  disallowed  without 
some  such  convulsion  of  being  as  separates 
soul  and  body.  I  have  explained  to  you  be 
fore  how  sacred  and  holy  a  thing  I  felt  this  to 
be,  and  with  what  incredulous  joy  I  accepted 
it  at  your  hands.  Can  you  deprive  me  of  this 
great  joy  ?  Will  you  try  to  do  so  ?" 

"  Perfect  friendship  means  perfect  con 
fidence,"  said  Beatrice  sadly.  "  You  and 
Juanita  deceived  me  into  thinking  you  almost 
strangers,  and  I  suddenly  discovered  you  to 
be — I  know  not  what — confidents,  lovers,  con 
spirators — at  any  rate,  other  than  you  had 
taught  me  to  believe.  I  asked  you  frankly 
for  an  explanation,  and  you  gave  me " 

"  A  conventional  answer,  which  I  did  not 
expect  or  wish  you  to  believe.  Do  you  not 
know  that  one  of  the  first  principles  in  social 
ethics  is  to  avoid  betraying  or  forcing  others 
to  betray  emotions  not  to  be  publicly  dealt 
with  ? — in  other  words,  to  avoid  '  scenes,'  and 
keep  the  surface  of  matters  smooth  until  the 
time  arrives  when  they  may  properly  be  dis 
turbed  ?"  * 

"  That  is  not  sincerity." 

"  No  ;  but  it  is  good  manners,  and,  like 
paper-money,  as  good  as  what  it  represents  so 
long  as  we  all  agree  to  receive  it  as  such.  But 
you  and  I,  Beatrice — if  you  will  allow  me  still 
to  call  you  by  that  name — you  and  I  found  in 
each  other  something  better  than  convention 
ality,  something  truer  than  the  life  we  both 
were  leading ;  you  allowed  me  to  call  you  my 
friend,  you  gave  me  faith,  and  confidence,  and 
esteem.  I  cannot  lose  those  gifts  without  a 
struggle." 

"  But  still  you  offer  no  explanation,"  mur 
mured  Beatrice,  half,  ashamed  of  her  own 
persistency. 

"  No  ;  nor  can  I  offer  one.  There  is  a  secret 
between  Mrs.  Charlton  and  myself — I  do  not 
deny  it ;  but  the  secret  is  not  mine,  and  I  can 
not  reveal  it.  I  saw  her  after  your  departure, 
and  asked  her  either  to  explain  the  matter  to 
you  or  allow  me  to  do  so.  She  would  consent 
to  neither  course,  and  I  have  come  to  you  with 
no  means  of  exculpation  in  my  hand,  no 
peace-offering  of  confession  or  explanation. 
I  come,  Beatrice,  simply  because  I  could  not 


rest  away  from  you,  knowing  you  to  be  dis 
pleased  with  me." 

"  It  has  been  a  sorrow  to  me  also,  for  our 
friendship  was  one  of  my  most  valued  posses 
sions,"  said  Beatrice  sadly. 

"  Do  not  speak  of  it  as  a  thing  in  the  past — 
do  not  withdraw  it  from  me,"  pleaded  Monck- 
ton.  "O  Beatrice!  if  you  knew  how  dry 
and  arid  my  life  was  before  it  felt  this  gracious 
dew,  and  how  all  good  things  were  springing 
up  under  its  influence !  Beatrice,  you  do  not 
know  the  depths  and  darkness  of  a  man's 
heart  who  has  no  woman  to  make  a  link 
between  him  and  heaven." 

Never  in  all  their  intercourse  had  Monckton 
spoken  with  such  fervor  and  unreserve ;  never 
before  had  he  betrayed  how  much  value  he 
attached  to  the  friendship  she  had  granted 
him ;  and  Beatrice  was  conscious  of  a  thrill 
of  pride  as  well  as  joy.  She  turned  her  eyes 
upon  him  with  a  shy  emile. 

"  How  can  you  care  so  much,  you  who  have 
seen  all  the  wonders  of  the  world,  for  a  simple 
girl  like  me '?"  asked  she. 

"  No  matter  how,  it  is  enough  that  I  do," 
said  Monckton  eagerly.  "  Tell  me,  Beatrice, 
will  you  still  be  my  friend,  will  you  forgive 
me,  trust  me,  believe  in  me  again  ;  or  do  you 
send  me  forth,  the  hopeless,  homeless  wan 
derer  you  found  me  ?" 

"  And  am  I  to  trust  you  again  as  I  did  be 
fore,  with  no  pretence  of  explanation  ?"  asked 
Beatrice,  arching  her  eyebrows  and  curving 
her  lips  in  mock  disdain. 

"  Yes  ;  for  that  is  friendship." 

"  Then  you  must  promise  that  you  will  tell 
me  no  more — what  do  you  call  them  ? — con 
ventional  answers." 

"  Well,  I  will  promise  you  that,  and  run  the 
risk  of  appearing  as  a  boor,  or  a  lunatic  es 
caped  from  Madame  de  Genlis's  Palace  of 
Truth,  before  the  world,"  said  Monckton,  lean 
ing  toward  Beatrice  and  taking  her  hand. 

At  this  moment,  Miss  Kachel  hastily  opened 
the  door,  noted  the  condition  of  affairs,  with 
out  appearing  to  look  beyond  the  loaf  of  cake 
she  carried,  and,  crossing  the  room,  opened 
the  door  of  a  store-closet  beside  the  fire,  from 
whose  recesses  came  a  rich  odor  of  spices,  tea, 
coffee,  syrup,  and  all  the  choicest  treasures  of 
the  housewife. 

"  You  must  excuse  my  going  right  on  as  if 
you  were  not  here,  Mr.  Monckton,"  said  she, 
returning  without  the  cake.  "  I  hope  Beatrice 
is  entertaining  you." 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


"  Admirably,  Miss  Rachel,"  said  Monckton 
•with  a  smile;  and  Miss  Rachel  discovered 
that  Beatrice  had  fled 


CHAPTER  XXVH. 
BUSY  BEES. 

THE  morning  proved  Jacob  a  true  prophet, 
for  it  broke  with  a  steady  downpour  of  rain, 
of  the  soft,  quiet  description,  as  little  likely  to 
change  as  the  will  of  those  smiling,  serene 
women,  than  whom  the  mountains  are  less 
obstinate 

"  Now,  Mr.  Monckton,"  said  Aunt  Rachel,  as 
the  traveller  after  breakfast  approached  the 
window,  "  you  might  as  well  consent  to  what 
you  can't  help.  The  going  will  be  miserable 
to-day,  and  the  rain  will  soak  through  that 
coat  of  yours  like  brown  paper.  Send  back 
your  sleigh  to  Bloom  and  make  yourself  con 
tented  here  until  to-morrow,  when  you  can 
take  the  stage.  We  are  going  to  have  a  bee 
to-day,  and  there  will  be  some  gentlemen  to 
tea  ;  and  Beatrice,  she  isn't  of  much  account 
for  quilting,  and  she  will  keep  you  company 
through  the  day.  You'd  better  stay." 

"  I  think  so  too,  sir,  and  I  should  be  glad  of 
some  one  to  keep  me  in  countenance  among 
so  many  of  the  more  powerful  sex,"  said  the 
deacon,  with  the  quiet  smile  that  always  sug 
gested  a  little  good-humored  satire  in  his  re 
marks  upon  womankind,  and  reminded  his 
hearers  that  the  opinions  formed  sixty  years 
ago  were  less  liberal  in  their  appreciation  of 
the  fairer  half  of  mankind  than  those  of  to 
day 

"  Oh !  yes,  he'll  stay,"  chimed  in  grandmam 
ma.  "  There'll  be  a  plenty  of  pretty  girls 
here,  even  if  we  hadn't  one  of  our  own." 

"And  we  shall  be  edified  in  watching  some 
new  proofs  of  universal  adaptiveness,"  said 
Beatrice  softly. 

"  How  can  I  choose  but  stay  with  so  many 
temptations,  even  if  my  own  wishes  were  not 
too  powerful  to  be  denied  ?"  said  Monckton 
gayly  ;  and  Miss  Rachel  slipped  out  of  the 
room  to  give  the  stable-lad  from  Bloom  a  sub 
stantial  breakfast,  and  bid  him  make  ready  to 
depart  alone. 

A  few  hours  later  the  bees  began  to  arrive 
in  spite  of  the  continued  and  increasing  bad 
weather. 

"  1  told  you  how  it'd  be,"  said  Jacob,  as  he 
approached  the  doorstep  where  Beatrice  was 
lingering  to  enjoy  the  soft,  moist  air,  while 


the  guests  she  had  just  welcomed  were  piloted 
up-stairs  by  Miss  Rachel. 

"  Yes,  but  how  will  they  get  home  again  ?'' 
murmured  the  young  lady,  as  Jacob  took  the 
horse  by  the  head  and  began  to  lead  him 
toward  the  barn. 

"  Oh !  that's  of  no  account,"  replied  he  scoff- 
ingly.  "  They're  here,  and  they  a'u't  to  home, 
and  that's  all  they  care  for." 

"How  unlikely  such  a  servant  would  be  in 
England !"  said  Mr.  Monckton,  who  had  qui 
etly  approached  the  open  door. 

"  So  familiar,  and  yet  so  truly  respectful," 
said  Beatrice. 


"  The  bees  began  to  arrive.'1'' 

"  Yes.  Here  in  New-England,  a  servant  is 
merely  a  man  who  for  wages  consents  to  per 
form  certain  service  for  another  man.  He  re 
tains  his  self-respect,  and  commands  the  re 
spect  of  his  employer,  and  both  of  them  tac 
itly  confess  that  some  day  the  employed  may 
become  employer,  and  even  rise  to  a  rank  far 
above  that  of  his  present  master.  There  is 
nothing  servile,  nothing  presuming  in  this 
man's  manners,  but  a  servant  who  is  born  and 
will  die  a  servant  cannot  cease  to  be  servile 
without  becoming  presuming." 

"  'My  country,  'tis  of  thee, 
Sweet  land  of  liberty, ' " 


THE  SHADOW  OP  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


73 


sung  Beatrice  with  a  smile  ;  and  as  another 
sleigh,  heavily  loaded  with  women,  old  and 
young,  one  small  boy,  and  several  umbrellas, 
toiled  up  to  the  door,  the  friends,  now  really 
friends  once  more,  withdrew  to  the  east  room, 
which  was  to  be  left  undisturbed  for  the  occu 
pancy  of  the  old  people,  and  whoever  chose  to 
join  them. 

"  Maybe,  Mr.  Monckton,  if  you  are  not  wanted 
at  the  quilting,  you  would  like  to  look  over 
some  old  records  and  curious  papers  saved 
through  two  hundred  years  in  our  family," 
said  the  deacon,  feebly  rising  and  unlocking 
the  great  brass-bound  secretary,  whose  deep 
drawers  and  pigeon-holed  recesses  contained 
antiquarian  wealth  enough  to  set  a  whole  col 
lege  mad. 

Mr.  Monckton,  who  had  the  taste  to  relish 
and  the  training  to  appreciate  these  treasures, 
accepted  the  offer  with  a  cordiality  which  evi 
dently  raised  him  in  the  opinion  of  the  old 
man,  who  seldom  vouchsafed  such  an  offer  to 
a  stranger,  and  who  valued  his  family  treas 
ures  to  their  full  extent. 

With  a  smile  of  quiet  amusement,  Beatrice 
watched  the  preparations  of  the  two  convives 
as  they  seated  themselves  to  their  feast,  and 
so  soon  as  they  were  fairly  engrossed,  left  the 
room  and  joined  the  throng  of  workers  already 
busy  in  the  great  parlor. 

"  How  d'y  do,  Beatryce  ?  How.'s  your  health 
since  you've  been  to  the  city  ?"  asked  Mrs. 
Green,  the  sturdy,  comfortable  wife  of  Doctor 
Bliss's  rival  in  Milvor. 

"  Very  good,  thank  you,  Mrs.  Green.  Let  me 
help  you  with  that  bar." 

"  Thauky.  You  see  we  thought  we'd  set  up 
the  best  quilt  in  this  room,  because  it's  the 
parlor,  and  birds  of  a  feather  had  oughter  flock 
together — don't  you  see  ?" 

And  Mrs.  Green  looked  round  upon  her  co 
adjutors  for  the  approving  laugh,  of  which 
they  did  not  disappoint  her,  it  being  a  fortu 
nate  illustration  of  the  law  of  demand  and  sup 
ply,  thaj  to  any  persons  of  small  intellectual 
average  a  very  little  wit  goes  a  great  way,  or 
even  no  wit  at  all  supplies  the  place  of  that 
stimulant  better  than  the  genuine  article. 

Beatrice  politely  joined  in  the  laugh,  and 
also  with  more  interest  in  the  labor  of  raising 
the  heavy  quilting-bars  upon  the  backs  of  four 
chairs,  and  securing  them  in  the  form  of  a 
hollow  square  by  means  of  gimlets  kept  for 
that  purpose.  Next,  the  lining  of  the  quilt- 
economically  composed  of  a  worn  and  faded 


counterpane — was  sewed  to  the  border  of  cloth 
tacked  to  the  inner  edges  of  the  bars  ;  then 
the  rolls  of  cotton- wool  were  laid  upon  it,  and 
a  warm  discussion  as  to  the  proper  amount  to 
be  used  went  round  the  circle  of  ladies  gath 
ered  about  the  frame  like  a  congress  of  crows 
considering  a  prey  fallen  into  their  midst. 

"  Well,  every  body  has  their  own  notions ; 
but  for  my  part,  I  don't  never  want  mA-ethan 
two  pound  of  cotton  in  a  quilt  that's  going  to 
lay  over  me.  If  you  get  in  more,  it's  more 
heft  than  warmth,"  said  Mrs.  Green. 

"  What  I  say  is,  if  you're  going  to  have  a 
quilt,  why  have  it,  and  let  it  be  of  some  use.  / 
don't  think  four  pound  of  cotton  a  mite  too 
much,  and  I  haven't  got  a  quilt  in  the  world 
with  less  in,  and  one  I've  got  for  the  boys' 
bed  has  got  six  in  it." 

"  I  should  think  your  boys  would  be 
smashed  down  flat  under  it,  Miss  Williams," 
suggested  another  matron.slightly  flushed  with 
the  heat  of  argument ;  and  at  this  moment,  for 
tunately  for  the  harmony  of  her  party,  Miss 
Rachel  entered  the  room.  The  question  was  at 
once  referred  to  her,  and  decided  with  a  dove- 
and-serpent  wisdom  which  excited  the  admi 
ration  of  her  niece,  who  had  become  a  little 
alarmed. 

"  Why,  to  my  mind,  it  depends  altogether 
on  where  the  quilt  is  to  be  used,"  said  Miss 
Rachel.  "  For  a  cold,  windy  room — up  garret, 
say — I  like  a  good  thick  quilt,  or  maybe  a  com 
forter,  and  if  the  wool  is  good  and  clean,  I 
don't  believe  four  or  five  pounds  would  be 
too  heavy  ;  but  in  a  warm  room,  I  think  it  is 
better  to  have  your  quilts  lighter  and  more  of 
them,  so  that  you  can  throw  them  off  and  put 
them  on,  as  you  like.  My  mother,  now,  has 
four  quilts  on  her  bed  besides  the  blankets, 
and  I  don't  believe  there  is  more  than  a  pound 
apiece  in  them.  So,  seems  to  me,  I  wouldn't 
put  more  than  two  pounds  in  this  quilt,  and 
after  we  get  it  out,  we'll  tack  a  comforter,  and 
put  five  pounds  in.  Then  they  could  go  on 
one  bed  together,  and  whoever  slept  there 
could  turn  one  or  the  other  off  as  they  were  a 
mind  to." 

"  Yes,  it's  well  to  suit  all  tastes  when  you 
can ;  and  some  folks  like  to  lie  warm,  and 
some  not  so  warm,"  said  an  old  lady  sooth 
ingly.  And  the  two  pounds  of  cotton  were 
laid  in,  with  no  more  discussion. 

The  next  operation  was  to  adjust  the  cover 
or  upper  crust  of  this  cotton-wool  pie.  This 
was  patchwork,  composed  of  small  octagonal 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


squares  of  brightly-colored  calico,  alternated 
with  large  octagons  of  solid  colored  cambrics, 
and  had  been  Miss  Rachel's  fancy-work  during 
the  last  month. 

It  now  received  many  encomiums  and  a 
minute  examination,  sweet  to  the  vanity  of 
the  laborious  artist. 

"  There's  a  piece  of  your  lilac  calico,"  and 
"  Wheje  did  you  get  that  rosy  piece  ?"  or 
"  These  pretty  cambrics  was  your  morning- 
gowns,  Beatryce,  wasn't  they  ?"  and  "  What 
a  lot  of  work  to  get  them  all  together,  and  how 
nice  you  set  off  the  colors  one  against  an 
other  !"  were  some  of  the  ejaculations.  And 
Miss  Rachel  modestly  deprecating  the  praise 
ehe  felt  richly  merited,  helped  to  lay  the 
cover  evenly  upon  the  cotton,  and  to  sew  it  to 
the  edges  of  the  bars. 

"  Now,  what  pattern  be  we  going  to  do  it 
in?"  asked  Mrs.  Green,  producing  a  ball  of 
hard  white  cord  and  a  piece  of  chalk  from 
her  pocket 

"  Herring-bone  is  about  as  pretty  as  any 
way,  a'n't  it  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Williams. 

"  I  like  di'monds,  inch-square  di'monds," 
said  another  lady  positively. 

"  Shell-pattern  is  pretty,"  remarked  one. 

"  Waves  are  prettier,"  suggested  another. 

"  How  do  you  do  waves  ?" 

"  Why,  lay  down  a  small  plate  or  a  saucer, 
if  you  want  them  small,  and  chalk  round  half 
the  edge.  Just  like  shell-pattern,  only  you 
do  that  with  a  teacup  " 

"  It's  pretty  to  have  double  parallel  lines, 
each  pair  about  ten  inches  from  the  next,  and 
then  waves  in  between  each  pair,"  said  quiet 
Mrs.  Phelps,  the  minister's  wife. 

"Like  skeins  of  yarn  drying  on  a  clothes- 
horse,"  whispered  Mrs.  Green,  who  never  ap 
proved  any  other  person's  suggestion,  and  yet 
dared  not  openly  contradict  the  minister's 
•wife,  whose  proposed  pattern  was  at  once 
adopted  by  Miss  Rachel. 

"  First  we  must  mark  out  the  lines,"  said 
Mrs.  Phelps,  looking  about  her.  "  Mrs.  Green, 
will  you  chalk  your  cord,  and  lay  it  on  where 
you  think  it  ought  to  go  ?" 

Mrs.  Green  thus  called  to  the  front,  gra 
ciously  obeyed,  and  first  drawing  the  cord 
over  the  lump  of  chalk,  laid  it  across  one 
side  of  the  quilt,  and  held  it  firmly  at  one  end, 
while  Mrs.  Phelps  drew  the  other  tight. 

"  Now,  Miss  Rachel,  you  must  snap  it,  for 
the  sake  of  the  sign,"  said  Mrs.  Green  ;  and 
Rachel,  with  a  prim  smile,  took  the  middle  of 


the  cord  between  her  thumb  and  forefinger, 
raised  it  a  little,  and  let  it  fall  with  a  smart 
snap,  striking  out  a  line  of  chalk-dust. 

"  What  is  the  sign  ?"  asked  Beatrice. 

"  Why,  the  one  that  snaps  the  first  line  on  a 
bed-quilt  will  lay  under  a  wedding  bed-quilt 
first  of  any  one  in  the  room,"  said  Mrs.  Green 
mysteriously,  as  she  and  the  minister's  wife 
moved  their  chalked  cord  about  an  inch,  had 
a  line  snapped  there,  and  then  removed  it  ten 
inches  further  inlaid,  and  chalked  another  pair 
of  parallel  lines,  while  Mrs.  Bruce,  with  an  in 
verted  breakfast-plate  and  a  piece  of  chalk 
sharpened  to  a  crayon,  proceeded  to  draw  the 
"  waves  "  between  the  two. 

Leaving  them  thus  engaged,  Beatrice  stole 
away  and  up-stairs,  where  in  the  room  overhead 
she  found  another  group  of  ladies  similarly 
employed  over  a  "  comforter,"  already  in  the 
frame,  and  ready  to  be  "  tied  "  in  diamonds,  a 
process  effected  by  pushing  a  needle  filled 
with  soft  thread  down  through  cover,  cotton, 
and  lining,  and  drawing  it  up  again  nearly 
in  the  same  place,  a  little  bunch  of  bright 
colored  wools  being  tied  into  the  knot  thus 
formed.  But  in  the  other  front  chamber,  the 
guest-chamber,  a  knot  of  matrons,  working  in 
secrect  conclave,  were  preparing  the  crowning 
glory  of  the  day — Miss  Rachel  herself  being 
rigidly  excluded  from  the  room,  and  Beatrice 
only  allowed  to  enter  under  promise  of  invio 
lable  secrecy. 

This  was  an  album  bed-quilt,  the  gift  of 
Miss  Barstow's  widest  circle  of  Mil  vor  acquaint 
ance,  each  octagon  composed  by  a  different 
person — the  only  point  of  harmony  insisted 
upon  being  the  size,  and  a  small  white  square 
in  the  middle,  bearing  the  name  of  the  donor, 
either  written  in  indelible  ink,  or  fairly 
wrought  in  cross-stitch,  according  to  her  taste 
or  ability.  Below  the  name  was  generally  a 
date,  and  frequently  a  couplet,  either  original 
or  selected — as  : 

"  When  this  you  pee, 
Eemember  me." 

"  The  rose  is  red,  the  violet  blue, 
Pinks  are  pretty,  and  so  are  you." 

"  Of  your  dreams  just  when  you  wake, 
Special  notice  you  should  take." 

"  Your  hand  and  heart 
Shall  never  part." 

"  I  send  this  square  to  Miss  Rachel,         ' 
To  show  that  I  wish  her  well." 

"  As  soon  as  you're  married,  dear  Miss, 
You'll  surely  be  living  in  bliss." 

"  This  pretty  piece  of  bedding 
Is  to  grace  Miss  Barstow's  wedding." 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


Beatrice  gravely  read  these  and  many 
similar  effusions,  admired  the  taste  displayed 
in  the  various  squares,  some  of  which  were 
very  pretty,  and  was  just  about  to  assume  her 
place  among  the  needle- women  already  busily 
at  work,  when  her  aunt's  voice  summoned 
her  into  the  hall,  and  she  obeyed,  first  renew 
ing  her  promise  of  secrecy. 


CHAPTER  XXVHI. 
STINGING  BEES. 

"BEATRICE,  it's  just  struck  twelve,  and 
don't  you  think  we'd  better  call  'em  out  to 
luncheon '!"  whispered  Miss  Barstow,  drawing 
her  niece  into  her  own  chamber,  at  the  mo 
ment  deserted,  although  the  bed  was  piled  up 
with  outer  garments,  and  a  small  baby  slum 
bered  peacefully  in  a  basket  upon  the  hearth. 

"  Why,  aren't  we  going  to  have  dinner 
pretty  soon  V  asked  Beatrice,  stooping  to 
touch  the  velvety  cheek  of  the  little  sleeper 
with  her  lips. 

"  Dinner  !  Why,  Trix,  have  you  forgotten  ? 
We  are  going  to  give  them  luncheon  now,  and 
by  and  by,  about  five  o'clock,  when  it  gets  too 
dark  to  quilt,  and  the  gentlemen  come,  we're 
going  to  have  dinner  and  supper  all  in 
one." 

"  Oh !  yes,  I  remember,  aunty.  They  must 
have  some  tea  with  their  luncheon,  mustn't 
they  ?  Old  ladies  always  like  tea  when  they 
are  at  work,  I  notice." 

"  Yes,  they  will  have  tea,  and  coffee,  and 
bread,  and  butter,  and  cake,  and  cheese,  and 
apple-tarts,"  said  Miss  Rachel,  checking  off 
each  article  upon  her  fingers.  "  And  I  want 
you  to  carry  round  the  cream  and  sugar  on 
that  little  silver  waiter  that  brother  Israel 
gave  me  last  New-Year's,  and  just  see  that 
every  body  is  getting  enough  to  eat,  and  sort 
of  urge  them  to  take  more,  or  something  else, 
you  know.  Some  people  always  say  no  the 
first  time,  and  mean  yes  all  the  while." 

"I  know  it,  aunty.  Yes,  I  will  see  that 
they  are  all  properly  urged.  Where  shall  I 
find  the  salver  ?"  asked  Beatrice,  smiling 
roguishly  at  her  aunt's  directions. 

"  It's  in  the  buttery,  with  the  silver  cream- 
pot  and  sugar-bowl  on  it,  all  ready.  You 
needn't  put  any  napkin  over  the  waiter,  Bea 
trice.  I  am  going  to  carry  in  a  little  hot  din 
ner  to  grandpa  and  grandma  in  the  east  room, 
because  they  hate  to  be  put  out  of  their  ways 
you  know,  and  I  suppose  Mr.  Moucktou  will 


eat  with  them.  I'm  afraid  he's  dreadful  lone 
some,  Beatrice." 

"  Not  a  bit,  aunty.  He  is  having  the  nicest 
time  you  can  imagine,  with  grandfather  and 
the  old  records.  I  peeped  in  there  just  now." 

'  I  dare  say  you  did,"  said  Miss  Rachel 
grimly,  touching  her  niece's  rosy  cheek  with 
her  forefinger.  "  Well.  Trix,  I  think  he  is  as 
nice  a  man  as  I  have  seen  for  a  great  while. 
I  like  him  ever  so  much." 

"  So  do  I,  aunty  ;  but  don't  go  to  building 
air-castles  with  me  for  Chatelaine  ;  although 
it  is  natural  enough  that  your  thoughts  should 
run  on  matrimony." 

"  You  saucy  girl "  began  Miss  Rachel ; 

but  Beatrice  with  a  merry  laugh  was  already 
running  down  stairs  to  look  for  the  silver 
salver. 

Long  afterward,  both  she  and  her  aunt  re 
membered  that  merry  laugh  and  that  light- 
hearted  audacity,  and  wondered  that  no 
shadow  of  the  clouds  sweeping  across  that 
brilliant  sky  should  have  warned  them  of  ita 
coming. 

The  luncheon  was  served,  and  Beatrice,  flit 
ting  from  group  to  group,  the  pretty  salver, 
with  its  cream-ewer  and  sugar-basin,  in  her 
hand,  and  her  face  bright  with  cordial  interest 
in  those  whose  wants  she  supplied,  presented 
a  more  attractive  picture  to  the  eyes  of  a 
reasonable  man  than  even  Beatrice  in  all  the 
luxury  of  her  gala  robes,  and  the  plenitude 
of  her  social  power. 

So  thought  at  least  Mr.  Monckton,  standing 
unobserved  in  the  hall  of  the  old  house,  sip 
ping  his  coffee,  and  watching  the  groups  in 
the  various  rooms  with  the  attentive  eye  of  a 
practiced  observer.  As  Beatrice  approached, 
he,  wishing  her  to  remain  unconscious  of  his 
presence,  lest  she  should  lose  the  simple 
earnestness  which  charmed  him  so  much  in 
her  present  manner,  seated  himself  quietly 
behind  a  group  of  thick-set  matrons  close  at 
hand,  and  so  became  most  unintentionally 
auditor  of  their  conversation. 

"  Zilpah  says  she's  real  comfortable,"  pur 
sued  Zil pah's  sister-in-law.  "  They  don't  have 
no  great  variety,  nor  no  company,  and  it's  so 
seldom  that  they  any  of  them  go  out  of  the 
woods,  that  she  hadn't  had  a  chance  to  write 
before,  since  they  got  there ;  and  I  don't  be 
lieve  she'd  have  written  now,  only  she  wanted 
to  tell  about  some  things  that  Marston  Brent 
gave  her  when  he  broke  up  here,  and  she  left 
them  with  Samooel  to  sell  for  her,  and  I  sup- 


76 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


pose  she  thought  it  was  time  to  hear  from 
them.  She  was  always  dreadful  sharp  after 
money,  Zilpah  was,  and  that's  a  complaint 
folks  don't  get  better  of  as  they  get  older." 

"Marston  Brent  and  his  folks  thought  a 
sight  of  Zilpah,"  said  another  matron  medita 
tively. 

"  Yes,  and  she  of  them.  She  has  a  lot  to 
say  about  Marston  in  her  letter.  He's  going 
to  be  married." 

"  Is  ?    Why,  who  to,  up  there  in  the  woods  ?" 

"  Well,  a  girl  that's  living  with  him  some 
way  now.  Zilpah  don't  say  much  about  it  ; 
only  that  evenings,  they  all  sit  round,  and  he 
teaches  Comfort  all  sorts  of  things.  Zilpah 
says  that  nobody  here  needn't  think  he's  feel 
ing  any  way  bad  about  what's  past  and  gone, 
for  she  never  see  a  man  more  taken  up  in  a 
girl  than  he  is  in  this  Comfort,  and  they'll  be 
married  soon." 

"  He's  got  over  the  breaking  off  with ' 

"  S — h  !  here  she  is,"  whispered  another 
voice ;  and  between  the  portly  forms  of  the 
matrons,  Monckton  saw  the  glitter  of  the  sil 
ver  salver,  and  heard  a  low  voice  saying  : 

"  Will  you  have  some  more  sugar  or  cream, 
ladies  1" 

It  was  not  five  minutes  since  he  had  heard 
that  voice  so  free,  so  sweet,  so  ringing  with 
innocent  mirth,  and  hardly  his  own  eyes  or 
ears  could  persuade  him  that  this  was  the 
same.  He  stole  a  look  at  Beatrice,  more  care 
ful  now  than  before  not  to  let  her  perceive 
him.  Yes,  face  as  well  as  voice  had  met  a 
change  so  great  as  to  be  almost  incredible. 
Those  blanched  cheeks — those  lips,  straight, 
hard,  and  colorless — those  eyes,  vacant,  yet 
burning — that  constrained,  mechanical  man 
ner!  Ah  !  was  this  the  light-hearted  Beatrice 
he  had  stolen  away  from  his  appointed  place 
to  admire  ? 

And  then  he  fell  to  speculating  v.pon  the 
sudden  change.  The  talk  of  those  women — it 
must  be  that ;  and  this  Marston  Brent  was 
the  man  she  had  loved,  and  from  whom  she 
had  been  separated.  A  lover's  quarrel,  which 
she  had  thought  some  day  to  reconcile,  and 
now  he  loved  another  woman  !  And  she,  so 
proud,  so  sensitive,  so — yes,  she  was  jealous 
in  her  friendship,  as  their  late  difference 
proved  ;  and  still  more  would  she  be  jealous 
in  her  love — not  meanly  jealous,  not  desiring 
to  harm  or  wound  either  faithless  lover  or 


successful  rival,  but  disdaining  a  divided 
reign,  resigning  all  without  a  struggle  the 
moment  a  struggle  became  necessary.  This 
was  the  temper  of  the  woman  whom  Monck 
ton  read  as  easily  as  that  morning  he  had 
read  the  old  Saxon  Bible  brought  from  Eng 
land  by  her  ancestor. 

Passing  quietly  behind  the  matrons,  and 
out  of  the  room,  he  waited  in  the  hall  until 
she  should  come  out,  meaning  he  knew  not 
what,  but  to  comfort  her  in  some  way.  Pres 
ently  she  came  ;  and  even  Monckton,  practiced 
societist  as  he  was,  stood  confounded  before 
her.  The  change  wrought  by  those  idle 
words  was  not  more  absolute  than  this — so 
different  from  both  the  other  moods  ;  and  who 
but  he,  who  knew  the  whole,  could  have  dis 
tinguished  between  the  girlish  glee  of  the 
first  and  the  practiced  persiflage  of  the  pres 
ent  manner? 

He  looked  at  her  curiously.  Yes,  her  eyes 
were  bright,  her  lips  smiling,  her  cheeks 
flushed,  her  tone  gay  and  unconcerned,  and 
the  slight  pallor  about  her  mouth  and  the 
slighter  tremor  of  the  jesting  voice  were  so 
faintly  marked  that  no  observer  less  acute 
than  he  could  have  distinguished  them. 

"  And  she  could  hardly  forgive  me  for  the 
transparent  lie  told  in  self-defence.  That  is 
woman,"  said  he  softly  to  himself.  Beatrice 
paused  before  him. 

"  Why,  Mr.  Monckton !  A  drone  among 
the  bees!  Aren't  you  afraid  of  being  stung 
to  death?" 

'•'  Not  while  the  queen-bee  is  my  friend," 
said  Monckton  significantly,  and  making  a 
show  of  helping  himself  from  the  salver,  he 
detained  her  long  enough  to  see  that  the  allu 
sion  had  shaken  somewhat  her  desperate  mood. 
"I  am  glad  that  we  were  reconciled  last 
night,"  said  she,  suffering  her  face  to  fall  for 
one  moment  into  an  expression  of  such  piteous 
suffering  that  all  the  manhood  of  Monckton's 
ieart  was  stirred. 

"  So  am  I.     I  want  to  see  you  alone,  when 
all  these  people  are  gone,"  said  he. 
"For  what?" 

"  I  will  tell  you  then.  Nothing  that  will 
rouble  or  annoy  you — be  sure  of  that." 

"  Sure  ?  I  am  sure  of  nothing  now."  And 
with  this  one  cry,  wrung  from  the  sharp 
igony  of  her  heart  by  his  sympathetic  tone, 
3eatrice  passed  quickly  on. 


THE   SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


77 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 
FEEDING  THE  BEES. 

THE  afternoon  passed  much  as  the  morn 
ing — the  usual  conversation,  varied  by  oc 
casional  remarks  upon  the  Aveather,  which  con 
tinued  "  soft  "  and  threatening  for  the  home 
ward  flight  of  the  bees.  Needles,  however, 
flew  as  actively  as  tongues,  and  by  five  o'clock 
three  bed-quilts,  including  the  famous  album- 
quilt,  and  four  comforters  lay  completed  upon 
the  floor  of  the  guest-chamber  :  the  frames 
were  rapidly  dismembered  and  taken  to  the 
garret,  the  rooms  cleared  of  litter,  and  the  la 
dies  requested  to  amuse  themselves  for  half 
an  hour,  when  supper  would  be  served.  Com 
plying  with  this  invitation,  the  elders,  after 
smoothing  their  black  silk  or  alpaca  dresses, 
and  adjusting  their  cap-ribbons,  repaired  in 
squads  of  two  and  three  to  the  east  room,  to 
pay  their  respects  to  the  patriarchs,  while  the 
younger  women,  after  devoting  a  little  more 
time  and  pains  to  the  renovation  of  their  toi 
lets,  collected  in  groups,  gossiping  in  low 
voices  and  with  much-suppressed  giggle,  or 
hanging  around  the  window  to  watch  the  ar 
rival  of  the  gentlemen  who  had  been  invited 
for  the  supper  and  evening  frolic  offered  to  the 
bees  by  way  of  recompense  for  the  toils  of  the 
day. 

This  supper,  as  it  was  justly  styled — for  cer 
tainly  it  was  neither  breakfast,  dinner,  nor  tea 
— was  a  feast  such  as  never  perhaps  is  spread 
out  of  New-England,  and,  alas  !  is  rarely  seen 
in  these  degenerate  days  even  in  that  favored 
region.  It  was  spread  upon  two  extempore  ta 
bles  extending  the  length  of  the  dining-room, 
and  crowded  upon  both  sides  with  plates ;  for 
Miss  Rachel  strongly  condemned  the  inhospi 
table  fashion  of  "  stand-up  teas,"  and  declared 
that  if  she  was  to  have  any  thing  to  eat,  she 
also  wished  a  comfortable  place  to  eat  it  in,  or 
wanting  that,  had  rather  go  unfed.  Upon  these 
tables,  then,  were  set  the  dishes,  including  an 
enormous  round  of  spiced  beef  at  either  end, 
roasted  turkeys  and  geese  as  central  orna 
ments,  and  such  trifles  as  roasted  and  boiled 
fowls,  hams,  tongues,  headcheese,  and  smoked 
beef  between.  Varying  these  meats  were 
plates  of  smoking-hot  fried  doughnuts,  hot 
biscuit,  brown  bread,  dipped  toast,  and  short 
cakes,  and  to  succeed  them  upon  the  bill  of 
fare  came  pies  of  every  imaginable  variety, 
cake  of  every  hue  and  description,  sweet 
meats,  pickles,  cheese,  custards,  and  fruit. 

At  a  smaller  table  across  the  head  of  the 


room  stood  Miss  Barstow  and  Beatrice,  pour 
ing  cups  of  coffee  and  tea,  which  Nancy  smil 
ingly  distributed  ;  while  Dr.  Bliss,  Mr.  Monck- 
ton,  and  a  few  other  gentlemen,  waited  upon 
the  fair  guests  at  the  tables,  carving  the  pieces 
do  resistance,  and  urging  them  upon  the  deli 
cate  creatures  whose  creed  of  manners  per 
emptorily  inculcated  resistance  to  all  such 
overtures,  however  much  exhausted  nature 
might  crave  support.  This  point,  however, 
being  thoroughly  understood  among  the  jo 
cund  swains  of  these  shy  Daphnes,  was  easily 
disposed  of,  and  somewhat  in  this  fashion  : 
"  Have  a  piece  of  the  turkey,  Miss  Welch  ?" 
"  No  ;  I'm  obliged  to  you,  Mr.  Snell ;  I  can't 
get  through  what  I've  got  on  my  plate." 

"  You  ha'n't  got  nothing  but  a  piece  of 
bread,  as  I  see.  Better  have  some  turkey,  it's 
first-rate." 

"  La  !  no,  I  couldn't  eat  it  if  I  was  to  take 
it." 

"  Well,  if  you  don't,  maybe  it'll  eat  you,  for 
one  of  you's  got  to  suffer,  and  there  it  is." 

"O  my!   Mr.  Snell,   what  be  you  doing? 
Well,  then,  I  shall  leave  it  on  my  plate." 
Which  she  did  not  do. 
Mr.  Monckton,  everywhere  at  once,  atten 
tive  to  every  one,  rather  preferring  the  older 
and  less  attractive  of  the  guests  to  the  younger 
and  prettier  ones,  proved  an  invaluable  auxil 
iary,  and  won  for  himself  more  golden  opin 
ions  than  have  often  crowned  more  real  self- 
sacrifice. 

The  admiration  excited  by  his  fine  face  and 
polished  manner  among  the  younger  ladies 
might,  indeed,  have  become  dangerous  to  the 
peace  of  their  respective  swains,  had  it  not 
been  tempered  by  the  information,  dropped 
:arly  in  the  day  by  Miss  Rachel,  and  indus 
triously  circulated  ever  since,  to  the  effect  that 
this  was  "Beatrice  Wansted's  beau,"  and 
therefore  not  available  for  any  other  aspirant. 
At  a  later  day,  Miss  Barstow  defended  herself 
with,  considerable  skill  from  the  charge  of 
setting  a  false  rumor  in  circulation,  with  the 
remark : 

'  Well,  if  he  wasn't,  he  ought  to  have  been, 
unless  my  eyes  deceived  me  when  I  came  in 
with  that  loaf  of  cake." 

But  with  all  Mr.  Monckton's  efforts,  he  never 
lost  sight  or  thought  of  the  friend  whose 
rief  was  to  him  as  his  own.  He  saw  that 
the  exertions  she  forced  herself  to  make  were 
too  great  to  be  sustained  ;  he  was  sure  that 
presently  she  must  fail  utterly,  either  in  mua- 


78 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


cle  or  nerve — must  faint  or  burst  into  hyster 
ical  weeping  ;  and  lie  well  knew  how  cruelly 
she  would  afterward  reproach  herself  for  either 
betrayal. 

Watching  her  with  ever-increasing  anxiety, 
he  saw  her  eyes  glazing  with  the  inward  fever 
that  burned  upon  her  cheeks  and  lips— wander 
about  the  room  with  the  appealing  gaze  of 
some  timid  creature  trapped  and  doomed  to 
death,  yet  seeking  despairingly  an  impossible 
escape.  He  saw  her  totter  and  grasp  at  the 
back  of  a  chair  for  support,  and  in  the  next 
moment  he  was  at  her  side,  her  hand  within 
his  arm. 

"  One  last  effort — look  about  you  and  try  to 
smile — don't  fail  now — remember  all  these 
people  !"  murmured  he  in  her  ear,  supporting 
her  as  well  as  he  could  without  attracting  at 
tention,  and  leading  her  rapidly  from  the 
room.  In  the  hall  she  tottered,  and  would  have 
fallen,  but  with  his  arm  around  her  waist,  he 
raised  and  carried  her  into  the  deserted  parlor 
and  laid  her  upon  a  sofa.  The  cool  air  and 
tender  twilight  of  the  place  revived  her,  and 
opening  her  eyes,  she  whispered : 

"  Thank  you.     I  am  so  glad " 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  let  you  spoil  all  your 
effort  by  breaking  down  at  the  last.  You  have 
done  nobly." 

Beatrice  opened  her  eyes  more  consciously, 
and  fixed  them  upon  his  face.  Then  she  said 
half  defiantly : 

"  Yes,  I  have  been  growing  tired  for  some 
time." 

Mr.  Monckton  bowed  with  a  face  which 
neither  denied  nor  accepted  the  proposition, 
and  Beatrice  blushed  scarlet. 

"  You  should  teach  me  how  to  say  those 
things  better,"  said  she  bitterly. 

"  You  need  first  some  food  ;  then  warmth 
and  rest,"  replied  Monckton  quietly.  "  Go 
to  your  own  room,  and  I  will  send  you  some 
thing  to  eat  and  drink.  You  have  taken  noth 
ing  since  breakfast." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?" 

"  Am  I  not  your  friend  ?" 

"  I  do  not  like  surveillance.'" 

"  You  like  nothing  to-night ;  but  after  eat 
ing  you  will  wrap  yourself  very  warmly,  and 
go  to  sleep — to  oblige  me." 

"Why  should  I  ?" 

"  Because  I  cannot  be  happy  unless  you  are 
at  least  physically  comfortable — because  I  am 
your  friend." 

"  Ah !"   shivered  Beatrice,  as  if  the  word 


had  hurt  her  ;  and  with  a  sudden,  uncontroll 
able  impulse,  she  laid  both  her  hands  in  his, 
and  fixed  those  piteous,  eloquent  eyes  upon 
his  face. 

"  My  friend !  Are  you  indeed  my  friend  ?" 
moaned  she.  "  Then  pray  that  I  may  die  to 
night." 

'  Beatrice !  No,  child,  you  shall  not  be 
alone  through  the  sharpness  of  this  agony — 
you  could  not  bear  it  yet.  Come  into  the  otlier 
room,  and  sit  beside  that  saintly  old  man ; 
the  peace  and  perfectness  of  his  calm  will 
soothe  you,  and  the  thought  of  the  battles  he 
has  fought  and  conquered  will  give  you 
strength  for  your  own.  Come." 

She  suffered  him  to  raise  and  lead  her  from 
the  room,  just  as  the  advance  guard  of  the 
devastating  army  in  the  dining-room  appeared 
at  the  lower  end  of  the  hall,  returning  upon 
their  footsteps.  Monckton  quickly  opened 
the  door  of  the  east  room,  entered  with  Be 
atrice,  and  closed  it  behind  them.  The  grand 
parents,  sitting  placidly  at  either  side  the  fire, 
with  a  little  tea-table  between  them,  looked 
up  and  smiled. 

"Miss  Wansted  is  so  much  fatigued  with 
her  hospitable  efforts  that  I  persuaded  her  to 
come  in  and  rest  a  little,  and,  if  I  might  ven 
ture,  I  should  suggest  to  Mrs.  Barstow  to 
make  her  drink  a  cup  of  tea." 

So  speaking,  with  the  easy  manner  of  one 
who  knows  his  presence  and  his  proposition 
sure  to  be  favorably  received,  Mr.  Monckton 
seated  Beatrice  in  a  comfortable  chair  near  her 
grandmother,  left  the  room  in  search  of  a  cup 
and  saucer,  and  brought  back  with  them  a 
plate  containing  some  bits  of  chicken  and  a 
piece  of  bread. 

"  Now,  Miss  Beatrice,  if  you  will  allow  me, 
I  shall  recommend  as  much  chicken  and 
bread  as  you  can  possibly  dispose  of  ;  and  to 
show  that  I  really  believe  in  my  own  prescrip 
tion,  I  shall  go  and  bring  yet  another  plate, 
cup  and  saucer,  and  set  you  a  good  example. 
You  see,  Mrs.  Barstow,  we  have  been  so  busy 
in  waiting  upon  other  people  that  we  have  as 
yet  done  nothing  for  ourselves,  and  I  fear 
this  young  lady  is  quite  exhausted." 

"  I  haven't  a  doubt  of  it,"  replied  the  old 
lady,  with  emphasis.  "  It  was  always  the  way 
with  her  from  a  child  ;  if  she  got  excited,  or 
tired,  or  any  thing,  she  wouldn't  eat  perhaps 
not  a  mouthful  in  a  day,  and  then,  of  course, 
she'd  break  down.  She  isn't  very  rugged  at 
the  best  of  times,  nor  her  mother  wasn't  be- 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


79 


fore  her.  Somehow,  these  pretty  creters  don't 
seem  to  wear  so  well  as  the  plain,  home-spun 
ones — like  Rachel,  say." 

"  My  wife  probably  wishes  to  say,  sir,  that, 
without  unnaturally  giving  the  preference  to 
either  of  her  daughters,  she  values  each  for 
her  own  peculiar  gifts,"  said  the  patriarch, 
somewhat  severely  ;  and  his  wife,  stirring  her 
tea,  vehemently  exclaimed  : 

"  Certain,  certain ;  that  is  what  I  meant." 


"  Tlie  Bees  going  home.'''' 

Mr.  Monckton,  replying  to  both  with  a  smile 
that  conveyed  every  thing  or  nothing,  as  the 
receiver  chose,  left  the  room,  and  presently  re 
turning  with  his  own  supper,  drew  a  chair  to 
the  table ;  and  while  eating  and  drinking 
with  unfeigned  relish,  contrived  to  insist  upon 
Beatrice's  doing  the  same.  When  she  would 
take  no  more,  he  contrived  that  her  grand 
mother  should  suggest  her  reclining  upon  the 
soft,  old-fashioned  couch,  and  himself  threw  a 
shawl  across  her  feet.  Then,  returning  with 
a  smile  her  look  of  gratitude,  he  set  aside  the 
little  tea-table,  and  devoted  himself  to  conver 
sation  with  the  deacon  and  his  wife  upon 
topics  which  he  knew  to  bo  especially  inter 
esting  to  his  silent  auditor. 


Thus  was  he  still  engaged  when  the  jingle 
of  sleigh-bells  announced  that  the  guests  were 
about  to  depart ;  and  Mr.  Monckton  feeling 
that  he  also  owed  a  duty  to  Miss  Rachel,  rose 
to  fulfil  it,  seeing,  with  quiet  satisfaction,  as 
he  passed  the  couch,  that  Beatrice  had  fallen 
fast  asleep. 

"  Ef  there  a'n't  some  hosses'  legs  broke  'fore  we 
all  get  home,  why  /lose  my  guess,"  remarked 
the  father  of  a  family,  standing  rather  discon 
tentedly  upon  the  doorstep,  and  examining 
the  gray,  watery  sky,  the  plashy  and  uneven 
road,  and  the  erratic  movements  of  the  sleigh 
just  driving  from  the  door.  > 

"  Now,  look  out,  girls,  for  some  fun.  If  you 
don't  get  upset  before  you  reach  Four  Corners, 
it  won't  be  my  fault !"  exclaimed  a  jolly 
young  farmer,  escorting  a  bevy  of  shrieking, 
exclamatory  girls  to  the  same'point.  And  half 
an  hour  later  the  last  guest  had  said  good 
night,  and  the  Old  Garrison  returned  to  its 
usual  condition  of  quiet  and  repose. 


CHAPTEU  XXX. 
BEATBICE  LOSES  HEIl  FRIEND. 

THE  rain  continued  all  night,  and  by  morn 
ing  the  ro#,ds  had  become  so  bad  that  Aaron 
Bunce  decided  that  the  risk  to  his  horse's 
legs  and  the  integrity  of  his  coach  was  greater 
than  any  hope  of  gain  in  prosecuting  his 
u,sual  journey,  and  therefore  remained  quietly 
at  home.  Whether  Mr.  Monckton  would 
have  gone  with  him  had  he  driven  to  Bloom 
remains  an  open  question  ;  but  at  all  events, 
he  acquiesced  very  amiably  in  the  necessity 
of  remaining  at  Milvor,  and  divided  his  time 
through  the  day  between  fireside  conversa 
tions  with  the  old  people,  good-humored  aid 
to  Miss  Barstow,  who  pervaded  the  house  like 
a  revolution,  setting  right  the  wrongs  of  the 
past,  at  expense  of  the  peace  of  the  present, 
and  unobtrusive  watchfulness  of  Beatrice, 
who  went  languidly  about  her  various  duties, 
and  alternated  in  her  mood  between  fictitious 
gayety  and  undisguised  depression. 

In  the  evening  twilight,  he  saw  her  steal 
softly  into  the  empty  parlor,  and  as  quietly 
followed  her. 

Beatrice  looked  round  at  the  opening  door 
with  obvious  annoyance. 

Monckton  quietly  approached,  and  seated 
himself  upon  the  sofa  beside  her. 

"  I  know  that  you  came  here  to  be  alone, 
and  that  you  regard  my  presence  as  an  intru 
sion,"  said  he.  "  But  you  will  remember  that 


80 


THE  SHADOW  OP  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


I  told  you  yesterday,  I  wished  to  see  you  for  a 
few  moments  alone,  and  tikis,  my  first  oppor 
tunity,  will  probably  be  my  last,  as  I  leave 
Milvor  early  in  the  morning." 

"  We  shall  be  very  sorry  to  lose  you,"  mur 
mured  Beatrice,  courteous  amid  all  the  suffer 
ing  she  controlled  so  painfully. 

"  Thanks.  You  reproached  me  bitterly  a 
little  while  ago,  Beatrice,  for  want  of  candor 
to  you,  who  have  a  right,  as  my  intimate 
friend,  to  claim  my  utmost  truth.  Now,  you 
will  be  tempted  to  reproach  me  for  over-much 
candor,  and  meddling  with  affairs  which  are 
not  for  the  touch  of  any  hand  save  your  own. 
Shall  I  speak,  or  may  I  keep  silence,  and  yet 
preserve  our  compact  of  perfect  sincerity  ?" 

"  Speak,"  whispered  Beatrice,  averting  her 
head. 

"  Well,  then,  I  heard  that  woman's  words. 
I  heard  that  Marston  Brent,  in  his  forest  soli 
tudes,  is  training  to  his  own  liking  a  wife  to 
take  the  place  of  a  lost  love,  and  that  this 
lost  love  is  no  longer  regretted.  Now,  tell 
me,  Beatrice — that  is,  if  you  will — was  this 
report  the  blow  that  prostrated  you  so  sud 
denly  yesterday  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  you  still  love  this  Marston  Brent  ?" 

"No."  # 

"  Forgive  me  if  I  trespass,  but  I  wish  to 
help  you.  This  report  may  be  false — very 
possibly  it  is  ;  at  any  rate,  before  you  fully 
credit  it,  allow  me  to  go  and  ascertain  the 
facts.  Will  you  ?" 

"  What,  go  to  Wahtahree  ?  It  is  five  hun 
dred  miles  from  here." 

"  If  it  were  five  thousand,  I  would  go,  if, 
by  going,  I  could  set  your  heart  at  rest." 

"  Then  friendship  is  something  better  worth 
than  love." 

"  That  is  another  question,  and,  besides,  you 
overrate  my  offer.  Travelling  is  my  profes 
sion,  and  I  have  been  quiet  too  long.  Shall  I 
go  to  Wahtahree  ?" 

"  No,  not  for  me." 

"  But  why  do  you  refuse  ?" 

"  I  do  not  wish  news  of  Marston  Brent." 

"  But  you  believe  this  old  wives'  tale,  and  it 
distresses  you." 

"  I  believe  it,  and  I  am  indifferent  to  it." 

"  Indifference  does  not  show  like  this." 

"Mr.  Monckton,  your  inquisition  partakes 
of  the  nature  of  torture.  You  have  passed 
the  question  ordinary,  and  reached  the  ques 
tion  extraordinary." 


"  You  shall  not  discourage  me  by  a  petu 
lance  that  arises  from  overwrought  nerves. 
I  wish  to  serve  you,  even  in  your  own  despite. 
Is  it  to  be  done  by  clearing  away  this  cloud  be 
tween  you  and  Marston  Brent  ?" 

"  No,  a  thousand  times  no.  Were  this  story 
proved  the  most  baseless  fiction,  you  can 
bring  us  no  nearer  together.  We  are  sepa 
rated  forever." 

"  By  your  will,  or  his,  or  circumstance  ?" 

"  Both — all — every  thing.  Must  I  tell  you 
the  whole  story  before  you  will  let  me  rest  ? 
Six  months  ago,  we  two  were  compelled  to 
settle  our  future  paths  through  life  ;  he  asked 
me  to  follow  his — I  bid  him  follow  mine  ;  both 
refused,  and  so  we  separated,  and  every  step 
since  has  led  us  farther  apart.  Stop,  I  have 
not  told  you  the  greatest  final  barrier :  I,  set 
ting  forth  alone,  would  have  faltered  and 
turned  back  to  join  him  ;  and  he — he  bid  me 
hold  to  my  determination,  and  respect  my 
own  word,  or  he  should  cease  to  respect  me. 
What  more  can  be  said  between  us  ?  The 
shock  of  hearing  that  he  loved  another  woman, 
and  already  made  himself  happy  with  her. 
was,  as  you  too  clearly  perceived,  a  severe 
one  ;  but  it  is  over  now,  and  it  has  never  for 
one  moment  meant  regret — that  is,  not  a  regret 
that  softens  my  resolution  never  to  yield  one 
half  inch  to  any  temptation  such  as  you  place 
before  me." 

"  The  temptation  to  recall  yourself  to  his 
mind  ?" 

"  Yes,  or  to  recall  him  to  mine.  All  I  de 
sire  is  to  place  an  impassable  barrier  between 
those  days  and  these  —  to  forget  Marston 
Brent  and  the  life  we  lived  together — to  blot 
out  the  past." 

Monckton  rose  and  paced  the  dusky  room 
up  and  down,  his  arms  folded,  his  head  bent 
upon  his  breast.  Beatrice,  watching  his  lithe 
figure  and  dark  face,  passing  and  re-passing — 
now  shrouded  in  the  gloom  filling  the  farther 
end  of  the  apartment,  now  showing  in  the 
gray  light  near  the  windows — thought  of  that 
maniac  ancestor  of  hers  who,  not  yet  mad 
enough  to  wear  the  fetters,  whose  scar  she 
had  so  often  traced  upon  the  beam  in  the  east 
parlor,  may  thus  have  paced  the  gloomy  twi 
light  rooms,  fighting  down  the  crowd  of  vis 
ionary  enemies  who,  at  the  last,  conquered 
him. 

"  I  wonder  if  I  shall  go  mad  too,"  whis 
pered  she,  shivering  down  in  the  corner  of 
the  great  sofa. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


81 


Just  then,  Monckton  paused  before  her. 

"  Beatrice,  I  have  turned  coward  all  at  once. 
I  wish  to  speak  to  you,  and  I  dare  not,"  said 
he. 

"  Afraid  of  me !  Your  friend,  as  you  have 
liked  to  call  me  !" 

"It  is  just  because  I  have  called  you  so, 
and  because  you  have  for  that  name's  sake 
given  me  your  confidence,  and  showed  me 
the  wound  you  hide  from  others — just  for  that 
reason,  I  dread  to  speak." 

"  What  can  you  mean  ?" 

"  I  fear  lest  you  should  call  me  false  to  my 
own  professions,  lest  you  should  deem  me  a 
traitor,  who,  having  the  key  of  the  treasure- 
casket  given  him,  uses  it  to  possess  himself  of 
the  jewels  he  was  sworn  to  guard.  Beatrice, 
you  have  granted  me  your  friendship,  and 
from  that  fair  height  I  see  the  Paradise  of 
your  love,  and,  man-like,  I  wish  to  attain  the 
best.  Have  you  one  word  of  hope  for  me  ?" 

But  Beatrice,  spreading  both  hands  before 
her,  as  to  ward  off  a  blow,  could  only  cry  : 

"  No,  no,  no !  Do  not  say  it,  do  not  think 
it !  Must  I  lose  you  too  ?" 

"  Beatrice,  you  said  you  desired  only  to  place 
an  impassable  barrier  between  yourself  and 
Brent,  to  prove  to  him  that  you  have  forgotten 
him,  as  he  you.  How  could  you  do  this  more 
surely  than  by  marriage?" 

"  No,  a  thousand  times  no.  You  were  right, 
Mr.  Monckton,  when  you  feared  to  make  this 
proposition  to  me,  and  I  was  weaker  than 
weak  to  believe  that  any  man  is  capable 
of  a  pure  and  disinterested  friendship.  Oh! 
why  could  not  you  have  been  content  ?  for  al 
ready  I  was  turning  to  this  friendship  as  my 
comfort  and  my  refuge  against  utter  desola 
tion.  I  believed  in  you,  and  you  have  deceived 
me." 

"  I  deceived  myself  as  well,  for  until  within 
this  last  four-and-twenty  hours  I  believed  as 
fully  as  yourself  that  my  feeling  was  one  of 
purest  friendship.  Your  distress,  your  help 
lessness,  your  unmerited  mortification  changed 
every  thing  at  a  blow." 

"  And  I  have  lost  my  friend,  and  gained 
nothing  in  his  place." 

"  If  you  would  accept  him,  you  have  gained 
a  true  and  tender  lover  in  his  place." 

"  I  do  not  want  your  love,  Mr.  Monckton — I 
have  none  to  give  in  place  of  it,  no  room  for 
it  in  my  heart.  I  asked  you  for  bread  and 
water,  and  you  offer  me  spices  and  wine." 

"  I  have  committed  a  great  mistake,  and  I 
6 


felt  it  to  be  such  even  while  yielding  to  the 
temptation,"  said  Monckton  bitterly.  "And 
yet,  God  knows,  Beatrice,  I  never  intended  to 
deceive  you." 

"  Well,  well,  it  is  of  small  importance  now. 
All  is  ali&e  wearisome  and  disheartening. 
Let  all  pass  together." 

And  Beatrice,  with  a  gesture  of  sullen  de 
spair,  turned  her  face  toward  the  pillow,  shut 
ting  out  sight  and  sound,  and,  if  she  might, 
all  memory  of  the  world  whose  fair  fruit  had 
already  turned  to  ashes  upon  her  lips. 

Monckton  stood  looking  at  her,  the  vast 
pity  in  his  heart  gradually  absorbing  the  mor 
tification  he  had  endured,  and  even  the  dis 
appointment  of  his  love.  Then  he  said  : 

"  Beatrice,  forget  this  hour.  Fancy  that, 
sleeping  here  in  the  dusky  room,  you  have 
dreamed  a  dream,  and,  waking,  smile  and  let 
it  pass.  Look  upon  me  with  the  coming  day 
light  as  your  firm,  fast  friend,  steadfast  for  the 
future  against  even  the  tempting  of  his  own 
heart,  and  true  to  you  through  all  the  chances 
of  both  our  lives.  Beatrice,  will  you  do  this  ?" 

"  How  can  I,  how  can  I  ?  How  shall  I  for 
get,  or,  remembering,  how  shall  I  trust  my 
self  not  to  recall  these  feelings  which  you 
banish  now?  I  should  be  afraid  to  speak 
or  look  or  behave  toward  you  with  the  un 
guarded  confidence  that  friendship  should 
permit.  I  never  could  be  sure  that  you  forget. 
I  never  could  forget  myself." 

"  Oh !  fool  that  I  was,  and  traitor — not  to  you 
alone,  but  to  the  whole  tenor  of  my  life  !"  ex 
claimed  Monckton  bitterly.  "  What  had  I 
to  do  with  woman's  love,  and  the  tender  hope 
and  peace  that  make  gardens  in  the  desert  of 
other  men's  lives  ?  Have  I  not  known  it  and 
felt  it  since  consciousness  began,  and  from  that 
day  to  this  have  cheated  fate  by  denying  my 
heart  all  interest  in  man  or  woman  ?  And 
now,  one  moment  of  weakness  has  destroyed 
the  care  of  years  ;  for,  Beatrice,  I  shall  not  for 
get  you,  I  shall  not  cease  to  love  you  while  I 
live." 

"Stay!  Where  are  you  going?  What  do 
you  mean?"  exclaimed  Beatrice,  as  Monckton 
turned  abruptly  from  her  side. 

"  I  am  going  to  leave  you  for  the  moment. 
To-morrow,  I  return  to  the  city,  and  from 

thence  I  go where  the  wind  goes.  Good- 

by." 

"  No,  no,  I  cannot  bid  you  good-by  thus. 
I  did  not  know  that  you  felt  BO-  deeply,  so 
bitterly " 


82 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


"  Child,  do  you  think  a  man,  in  the  vigor  of 
his  manhood,  uncloses  his  grasp  of  the  one 
thing  he  prizes  on  earth  as  easily  as  a  girl 
drops  a  withered  flower  ?  Because  this  love 
of  mine  is  the  idlest  of  all  follies,  it  is  none 
the  less  a  real  thing  to  me,  and  the  heart 
that  has  never  been  touched  until  now  will 
not  heal  easily  over  its  wound." 

"  But  wait  one  moment.  You  said  but  now 
that  you  would  forget  it,  that  you  would  re 
turn  to  yesterday,  and  be  again  my  true,  calm 
friend,  and  nothing  more.  If  that  were  pos 
sible  !" 

"  It  is  not.  The  effort  would  be  a  fresh 
treachery,  and  would  end  as  this  has  done.  I 
might  hide  the  true  feeling  for  months,  for 
years  perhaps,  but  it  would  always  be  there, 
and  some  day  the  volcano  would  burst  forth 
afresh.  I  am  glad  your  eyes  were  clear 
enough  to  read  the  proposition  rightly." 

"  Then  I  have  lost  my  friend,  as  before  I 
lost  my  love,  and  now  must  set  my  face  toward 
the  end,  unguided,  unaided,  alone." 

"  Hush,  for  God's  sake,  hush  !  You  bring 
my  selfish  folly  too  hideously  to  lig  t.  Had 
I  contented  myself  with  friendship,  you  never 
need  have  uttered  that  lament.  0  Beatrice  ! 
try  to  forgive  me,  for  I  never  can  forgive  my 
self." 

He  hastened  from  her  presence,  and  Beatrice, 
alone  in  the  darkness  and  the  gloom,  fell  upon 
her  knees  crying  :  "  God  help  me!  God  help 
me,  for  I  have  no  other  friend !'' 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

A  DISAGREEABLE:  SURPRISE. 

THE  day  before  the  wedding,  arrived  Mr. 
Israel  Barstow,  and  was  received  with  sober 
joy  by  his  parents,  with  fluttering  cordiality 
by  the  bride-elect,  and  with  a  feverish  eager 
ness  by  Beatrice,  who,  with  the  instinctive 
desire  most  of  us  have  felt  to  hide  our  sor 
rows  in  a  crowd,  was  longing  to  return  to  her 
city  home. 

Uncle  Israel  received  all  these  demonstrations 
gratefully,  and  yet  in  a  strangely  preoccupied 
manner  very  different  from  his  usual  hearty 
fashion,  and  so  marked  that  each  of  his  friends 
noticed  and  put  a  different  construction  upon 
it — his  father  fearing  that  his  business  had  be 
come  involved  ;  his  mother  watching  for  symp 
toms  of  illness  :  Rachel  concluding  that  her 
own  marriage  had  reawakened  some  long-past 


tender  memories  ;  and  Beatrice  dreading  lest 
he  had  learned  Mr.  Monckton's  rejection. 

But  when  at  the  stroke  of  nine  o'clock,  the 
old  people  prepared  to  retire,  and  their  son 
dutifully  rose  to  bid  them  good-night,  the 
mystery  was  suddenly  solved. 

"  Before  you  go,  father  and  mother,"  said 
Mr.  Israel  Barstow  in  a  strangely  confused 
voice,  "  I  should  like  to  tell  you  something — 
something  which  I  hope  you  will  like  to  know, 
or  at  least  not  take  unkindly.  The  fact  is, 
that  I'm  going  to  be  married  too." 

"  You  married !  Why,  Israel  Barstow, 
what  do  you  mean  ?  What  sort  of  a  girl  have 
you  picked  out  at  last  ?"  exclaimed  the  mother ; 
and  Rachel  added  approvingly  : 

"  '  Better  late  than  never ;'  and  you're  not  so 
much  older  than  I,  Israel." 

"  Who  is  it,  uncle  ?"  asked  Beatrice,  with  a 
sudden  terror  seizing  upon  her  heart. 

"  Some  one  you  know,  and  can't  but  like,  af 
ter  all  the  time  you've  been  together.  Mrs. 
Charlton,  Beatrice,"  said  Mr.  Barstow,  growing 
very  red  in  the  face,  and  avoiding  his  niece's 
grieved  and  astonished  eyes. 

"  A  Southern  woman  !"  exclaimed  the  Puri 
tan  father. 

"  A  widow  !"  ejaculated  his  wife. 

"  A  regular  fashionable !"  added  Miss 
Rachel  ;  while  Beatrice,  without  remark,  re 
moved  her  hand  from  her  uncle's  arm  and 
turned  away. 

"  Well,  you,  each  of  you,  seem  to  find  a 
separate  fault,  and  none  of  you  any  thing 
pleasant  to  say,"  remarked  the  lover  rather 
bitterly. 

"  I  hope  you  have  judged  wisely  for  your 
self,  son,  and  I  trust  that  your  future  life  will 
be  made  a  happy  one,"  said  the  father  mildly. 
"  This  is  a  matter  in  which  every  mature  man 
should  j  udge  for  himself.  I  shall  be  glad  to 
see  the  woman  you  have  selected  as  your  wife 
whenever  you  see  fit  to  bring  her  here  ;  and 
now  I  will  wish  you  a  good-night." 

"  Of  course  we  shall  be  glad  to  see  her,  and 
if  she  makes  you  a  good  wife,  she  shan't  com 
plain  that  her  husband's  folks  don't  notice  her 
enough.  Why  didn't  you  bring  her  down 
with  you  this  time,  Israel  ?" 

"  Thank  you,  father  and  mother.  I  know 
you  will  like  her  when  you  see  her  ;  but  I 
thought  it  would  be  better  to  come  some  quiet 
time  after  the  wedding,"  said  Israel,  with  an 
air  of  relief  at  having  gotten  over  the  an 
nouncement.  "  You  see  we  shall  not  make 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


88 


such  a  parade  as  Rachel  and  the  doctor  are 
doing.  We  are  to  be  married  quietly  in 
church  some  morning,  slip  away  to  Washing 
ton  for  a  few  weeks,  and  then  settle  down  at 
home.  Well,  good-night.  You're  not  off  too, 
Kachel  ?" 

"Yes,  I  have  to  help  mother  a  little  about 
undressing,  but  I  will  be  back  in  a  minute," 
said  Miss  Barstow ;  and  closing  the  door,  she 
left  her  broiher  alone  with  his  niece,  who  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life  felt  embarrassed  in 
his  presence.  The  constraint  was  mutual, 
but  Mr.  Barstow  was  the  first  to  overcome  it. 

"  Trix,"  said  he,  approaching  her  as  she 
leaned  upon  the  high  back  of  her  grandfa 
ther's  chair  and  stared  dreamily  into  the  fire, 
"  you  seem  out  of  spirits  about  something. 
I  hope  it  is  not  because  your  friend  is  going 
to  become  your  aunt." 

"  0  Uncle  Israel !  don't !"  exclaimed  the  girl 
with  involuntary  dismay. 

'•'  Don't  what,  child  ?" 

"  Don't  speak  of  Mrs.  Charlton  as  my 
aunt." 

"  But  she  will  be.  Of  course  your  uncle's 
wife  will  be  your  aunt,  and  I  don't  take  it 
kindly  of  you,  Beatrice,  to  show  this  dislike 
to  a  step  that  I  am  sure  will  add  so  much  to 
my  happiness,  as  well  as  to  that  of  a  very 
charming  and  very  lovely  woman." 

"  Of  course,  uncle,  I  have  no  right  to  show 
or  to  feel  disapproval  of  your  action.  Only  I 
was  so " 

"  Well,  so  what  ?  '  asked  Mr.  Barstow  a  lit 
tle  harshly. 

"  Shocked,  I  was  going  to  say,"  murmured 
his  niece. 

"  That  is  a  strange  word  to  use  about  such 
an  affair.  Pray  what  is  there  so  shocking  in 
it?" 

"  Do  not  be  angry  with  me,  uncle — I  have 
not  been  well  since  I  was  here,  and  I  am  tired 
and  nervous.  Don't  mind  what  I  say  at  all." 

And  Beatrice,  crossing  her  arms  upon  the 
chair-back,  leaned  her  head  upon  them,  and 
wondered  bitterly  if  so  desolate  a  creature  as 
herself  lived. 

The  expression  of  the  drooping  figure  was 
more  eloquent  than  speech,  and  went  straight 
to  the  kindly  heart  of  Mr.  Israel  Barstow,  al 
ready  tingling  with  a  little  remorse,  as  he  re 
membered  his  openly  avowed  intention  of 
adopting  Beatrice  as  his  daughter  and  heiress. 

"  Come,  come,  my  little  girl,"  said  he,  ten 
derly  drawing  her  to  his  embrace,  and 


smoothing  with  a  familiar  gesture  the  beauti 
ful  hair  he  had  so  often  praised.  "  You  are 
not  to  suppose  this  makes  any  change  to  you. 
My  house  is  your  house,  and  I  shall  insist  upon 
you  making  a  home  of  it ;  and  as  formoney,\vhy 
I  fancy  there  will  be  enough  for  all  of  us,  both 
now  and  by  and  by.  Nothing  will  be  changed 
from  what  it  has  been,  except  that  you  will  be 
nearer  and  dearer  to  both  of  us.  She  told  me 
to  give  her  love  to  you,  and  I  have  a  little  note 
in  my  pocket  that  I  was  to  hand  you  after  you 
had  heard  the  news." 

"  After  I  had  been  prepared,"  thought  Bea 
trice,  and  then  casting  the  bitter  feeling  reso 
lutely  behind  her,  she  put  her  arms  about  her 
uncle's  neck  and  kissed  him  tenderly. 

'•  Dear  Uncle  Israel,"  said  she,  "  unless  you 
wish  to  make  me  feel  like  the  most  ungrate 
ful  and  degraded  creature  in  the  world,  never 
talk  so  to  me  again.  Did  you,  could  you  think 
that  I  remembered  money,  or  that  I  was  afraid 
I  should  not  have  all  that  I  ever  enjoyed  in 
your  house  ?  I  do  not  deserve,  I  never  have 
deserved  your  kindness,  but  at  least  I  am  not 
ungrateful." 

"  Nor  I  either,  Trix,  and  it's  I  that  am  the 
debtor.  But  you'll  come  home  with  me,  won't 
you,  dear?  The  fact  is,  I  am  a  little  lonely 
after  all  our  pleasant  tiroes,  and  miss  you 
sorely.  Of  course,  June  has  not  been  with  us 
since  you  left,  and  the  house  seems  dull 
enough.'1 

"  Certainly  I  will  come,  if  you  need  me,  \m- 
cle.  Mrs.  Charlton  will  not  return  until  after 
— after  you  are  married,  I  suppose." 

"  No,  oh  !  no.  She  is  terribly  rigid  on  all 
points  of  propriety,  you  know." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Beatrice  faintly 

"  We  are  proposing  to  be  married  quite 
soon — in  fact,  next  Thursday,  the  day  after  I 
get  home  from  here,  and  we  start  upon  our 
tour  the  same  day,"  said  Mr.  Barstow,  a  liti.j 
nervously ;  "  and  I  should  be  very  glad  to  have 
you  go  with  us,  Trixie,  but " 

"  Oh !  no,  uncle,"  interposed  Beatrice  hastily, 
"  that  would  be  quite  out  of  the  question. 
Don't  think  of  it !" 

"Well,  so  June  said,"  replied  Mr.  Barstow 
innocently.  "  And  I  suppose  it  might  be  a 
little  odd  ;  but  then,  you  know,  we  are  not  very 
young,  or  very  romantic,  either  of  us,  and  I 

thought  it  would  be  pleasant However,  if 

you  will  stay  quietly  in  Midas  Avenue  with 
Mrs.  Grey,  and  just  overlook  a  little  some  new 
furnishing  and  decorating  that  is  to  be  done 


84 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


in  our  absence,  I  can't  tell  you  bow  much 
obliged  I  shall  be.  Besides,  Trix,  you  must 
remember  these  turtle-doves  here  will  want 
their  nest  to  themselves,  and  we  shall  botli  of 
us  be  better  out  of  the  way  than  in  it  after 
to-morrow." 

Beatrice  did  not  reply.  The  bitter  waters 
in  which  she  seemed  sinking  closed  her  lips, 
and  had  she  unclosed  them  it  would  be  to 
say: 

"  Yes,  you  make  your  home  no  home  for 
me,  and  in  the  same  moment  remind  me  that 
I  am  no  longer  needed  or  wanted  in  the  only 
other  home  open  to  me." 

But  she  did  not  say  it,  and  before  Mr.  Bar- 
stow  could  pursue  the  subject.  Miss  Rachel 
entered,  her  momentary  annoyance  at  her 
brother's  marriage  past,  and  her  tongue  vol 
uble  with  questions,  information,  sly  jests  at 
her  own  and  his  late  romance,  and  all  the 
pleasant  flutter  natural  to  a  bride  upon  her 
marriage  eve,  and  a  secluded  woman  in  pos 
session  of  an  exciting  piece  of  news. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 
MRS.  CIIARLTON'S  SECRET. 

THE  next  morning,  after  her  return  to  town, 
Mr.  Barstow  accompanied  his  niece  in  a  formal 
call  upon  Mrs.  Charlton. 

Beatrice,  who  had  nervously  dreaded  this 
visit — more,  however,  upon  Juanita's  account 
than  her  own — smiled  at  her  own  tremors  be 
fore  the  first  five  minutes  were  over.  Mrs. 
Charlton's  perfect  breeding  answered  the  ex 
igencies  of  the  occasion  better  even  than  sin 
cerity,  which  involves  emotion,  and  opens  the 
way  for  awkward  situations — edge-tools  not 
to  be  handled  without  serious  risk  to  the  fin 
gers  of  the  handler.  But  awkwardness,  ab 
surdities,  embarrassment,  were  unknown  in 
gredients  in  any  of  Juanita  Charlton's  com 
binations,  and  this  interview,  apparently  so 
natural  and  free  from  all  constraint,  had  been 
the  subject  of  her  deepest  thought  from  the 
moment  it  had  been  announced  by  Mr.  Bar- 
stow's  hastily-pencilled  note. 

Toward  Beatrice  her  manner  was  precisely 
what  it  had  been  before  they  separated — kind, 
familiar,  a  little  protecting  and  indulgent,  as 
far  removed  from  fondness  as  from  formality, 
and  with  no  shade  of  consciousness  that  any 
new  relation  existed  or  was  about  to  exist 
between  them.  Toward  Mr.  Barstow  she  was, 
perhaps,  a  little  more  familiar  than  formerly, 
and  there  might  be  perceived  a  slight  tone  of 


deference  and  of  dependence  upon  his  judg 
ment  and  opinion,  not  to  be  noticed  before ; 
and  yet,  as  Beatrice  acknowledged  to  herself, 
the  keenest  satirist  could  have  found  no  room 
for  a  sneer,  either  in  the  manner  she  adopted 
upon  her  own  part  or  the  manner  she  permitted 
upon  that  of  the  mature  adorer,  who  evidently 
only  waited  her  sanction  to  display  his  passion 
in  the  most  decided  manner. 

At  the  end  of  half  an  hour,  Beatrice  rose  to 
take  leave  with  a  feeling  blended  of  admira 
tion  and  gratitude  toward  the  woman  whose 
social  talent  had  rendered  easy,  and  even  pleas 
ant,  an  interview  that  might  have  been  so  ex 
ceedingly  disagreeable. 

But,  in  parting.  Mrs.  Charlton  slightly  de 
tained  her  future  niece,  while,  with  a  smiling1 
gesture,  she  intimated  to  her  lover  that  he  was 
to  proceed  down-stairs  alone. 

"I  want  to  see  you,  Beatrice.  I  have  a 
message  for  you." 

"  From  whom  ?" 

"  No  matter  just  yet.  Will  you  wait  now, 
or  call  again  after  you  set  down  your  uncle? 
I  will  go  for  a  little  drive  with  you,  if  you  will 
take  me." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Beatrice,  smiling  at 
thought  of  how  soon  carriage  and  horses 
would  be  Mrs.  Charlton's  own  ;  and  then  she 
hurried  down-stairs,  only  anxious  just  then  to 
part  from  her  companion,  and  almost  forget 
ting  to  wonder  what  the  mysterious  message 
could  be. 

"  Now,  Trix,  you  may  take  me  down-town, 
if  you  don't  dislike  the  drive,  and  then  go 
home,  or  wherever  you  choose,"  said  Mr. 
Barstow,  handing  his  niece  into  the  carriage 
with  the  ceremonious  politeness  natural  to 
him. 

"  Yes,  uncle,  we  will  drive  down-town,  cer 
tainly  ;  and  then  Mrs.  Charlton  asked  me  to 
come  back  and  take  her  out  for  a  little.  She 
has  something  to  say  to  me,"  said  Beatrice, 
determined  to  become  entangled  in  no  con 
cealments. 

"  Has  she  ?  Poor  girl,  I  suppose  she  thinks 
you  are  not  reconciled  to  the  marriage,  and 
she  wants  to  explain  a  little.  You'll  be  kind 
and  gentle  with  her,  won't  you,  Trix  ?" 

"  I  will  try,  uncle,"  said  Beatrice  demurely, 
and  almost  laughed  aloud  at  the  idea  of  Mrs. 
Charlton's  needing  indulgence  and  encourage 
ment  at  her  hands,  or  feeling  any  desire  to 
apologize  for  her  course. 

An  hour  later,  Mr.  Barstow's  handsome  car- 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


85 


riage  again  stopped  at  the  private  entrance  of 
the  Grandarc  Hotel ;  and,  in  answer  to  Miss 
Wansted's  card,  Mrs.  Charlton  came  rustling 
down  the  stairs,  elegantly  dressed,  and  with 
a  contented  smile  upon  her  lips,  presenting 
the  picture  of  a  fresh  and  care-free  woman,  in 
the  prime  of  her  life  and  her  beauty. 

Beatrice  looked  at  her  more  kindly  than  she 
yet  had  done,  and  while  she  seated  herself  be 
side  her,  said  almost  affectionately  : 

"  How  well  you  look,  Juanita,  and  how 
happy !  I  am  so  glad  if  you  really  love  my 
kind,  good  uncle." 


"  The  Grandarc  Hotel." 

"I  shall  make  him  happy,  do  not  be  afraid, 
Trix  ;  although,  confess  you  have  been  horri 
bly  frightened,"  laughed  Mrs.  Charlton  ;  and 
Beatrice,  vexed  at  feeling  the  blood  burn 
guiltily  in  her  cheeks,  could  not  reply. 

Mrs.  Charlton  pursued  the  subject  no  fur 
ther,  but  occupied  herself  in  arranging  her 
draperies  for  some  moments.  Then  she,  said 
abruptly : 

"  Yes,  Beatrice,  I  have  a  message  for  you, 
and  a  package,  and  I  promised  Mr.  Monckton 
that  I  wouid  tell  you  something." 

"  Mr.  Monckton  !"  echoed  Beatrice. 

"  Yes ;  he  came  to  see  me  after  you  refused 
Mm." 


"  Did  he  tell  you  that  ?"  interrupted  Beatrice. 

"  No,  dear,  not  precisely ;  but  I  inferred  it 
from  what  he  said,  and  he  did  not  attempt  to 
deny  it." 

"  You  should  not  have  tried  to  surprise  me 
into  acknowledging  your  inference,  however," 
said  Beatrice  indignantly. 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  Well,  he  came  to  see 
me,  and  was  inclined  to  revenge  the  affront  he 
had  received  from  you  upon  me,  because  he 
said  the  annoyance  you  experienced,  in  finding 
that  he  and  I  kept  a  secret  from  you,  was  the 
primary  cause  of  a  quarrel,  or  a  misunder 
standing  rather,  which  had  separated  you. 
Then  he  said  that  he  was  going  abroad  direct 
ly.  The  fact  is,  my  dear,. the  man  has  a  per- 
petual  motion  inside  him  somewhere,  and 
nothing  would  have  kept  him  long ;  but  he 
said  that  he  was  going,  and  might  never  re 
turn — should  not  for  a  very  long  time,  at  any 
rate  ;  and  he  thought  I  owed  it  to  him  to  set 
him  right  with  you  after  he  was  gone — on 
the  principle  of  '  De  mortuis  nil  nisi  bo- 
num,'  you  know — and  after  a  while  I  consent 
ed.  But,  Beatrice,  you  must  promise  me,  upon 
your  sacred  word  of  honor,  that  you  will  never 
repeat  what  I  am  going  to  tell  you  to  any  liv 
ing  soul." 

"  It  is  not  necessary  to  promise  so  solemnly 
— I  am  no  tale-bearer,"  said  Beatrice  rather 
contemptuously. 

"  We  none  of  us  know  what  we  are  until 
we  are  tempted.  A  remark  trite  perhaps,  but 
none  the  less  true,"  said  Mrs.  Charlton  sen- 
tentiously.  "And  what  I  am  going  to  tell  you 
is,  as  somebody  said  of  his  head,  not  valuable 
to  the  world  at  large,  but  very  important  to  the 
owner.  So,  promise." 

"  Very  well.  I  promise  not  to  betray  your 
confidence,"  said  Beatrice  coldly. 

And  Juanita  looked  at  her  with  a  malicious 
smile  as  she  replied  : 

"  Remember,  you  have  promised,  and  I  hold 
you  to  it  through  every  thing — so  here  is  my 
story : 

"  While  Mr.  Charlton  lived,  I  met  my  first 
love." 

1  Excuse  me.  You  mean  to  say  that  Mr. 
Charltou  was  your  first  love  ?"  asked  Beatrice, 
a  little  perplexed. 

"Not  at  all,"  replied  her  companion  with 
admirable  coolness.  "  What  I  mean  to  say  is, 
that  about  six  months  after  I  became  Mrs. 
Charlton  I  met  Major  Strangford,  an  officer  in 
the  United  States  army,  and  that  he  was  my 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


first  love.  Now,  Beatrice,  it  is  by  no  wish  of 
iny  own  that  I  am  telling  you  this  story.  Had 
you  been  a  confiding,  simple-hearted  woman, 
who  would  have  accepted  Mr.  Monckton's  as 
surance  that  the  mystery  between  him  and 
myself  was  nothing  to  you,  I  should  have 
been  spared  the  necessity  of  telling  and  you 
of  hearing  any  thing  farther  ;  but  since  your 
own  suspicions  and  Mr.  Monckton's  doctrine 
of  compensation  have  forced  this  issue  upon 
us  both,  let  us  accept  it  manfully,  and  with  as 
few  womanish  complications  of  deceit,  spite, 
and  malice  as  possible;  which  episodical 
piece  of  advice  please  take  in  reply  to  the 
contemptuous  smile  and  look  of  indignant 
virtue  with  which  you  have  already  favored 
me,  and  which  I  beg  may  not  be  repeated." 

"  I  can  turn  my  face  away  if  its  expression 
annoys  you,"  said  Beatrice  quietly. 

"  Try,  instead,  to  cultivate  a  wider  scope  of 
moral  vision,  and  look  beyond  the  blue  laws 
in  which  you  have  been  bred,"  retorted  Mrs. 
Charlton.  "  However,  the  story  is  to  be  told, 
and  I  shall  fulfil  my  compact  with  Mr.  Monck- 
ton,  however  you  receive  the  communication  : 
Major  Strangford  and  I  then  fell  in  love  at 
first  sight,  if  you  will  pardon  the  platitude- 
winch  in  this  case,  however,  was  any  thing 
but  a  platitude,  for  in  both  our  hearts  throbbed 
the  fiery  blood  of  the  South,  and  both  our 
temperaments  were  of  the  vivid  and  sympa 
thetic  order  which  recognizes  destiny  at  a 
glance,  and  follows  its  dictates  with  blind 
confidence.  But  crime  is  a  stupidity,  and  loss 
of  social  position  is  worse  than  annihilation. 
We  recognized  this  truth,  and  separated.  A 
few  months  later,  he  married  ;  his  heart  of 
fire  and  brain  of  quicksilver  were  incapable 
of  quiet  inaction,  and  he  could  not  wait.  A 
year  later,  I  was  a  widow.  He  heard  of  it, 
end  travelled  a  thousand  miles  from  his  dis 
tant  frontier  post  to  see  me.  Fancy  that 
meeting  !  No,  you  cannot  fancy  it ;  it  is  not 
in  you  to  imagine  the  fury  of  remorse,  de 
spair,  hopelessness,  which  raged  in  both  our 
hearts.  That  one  short  day  eat  the  pith  out 
of  my  life  and  killed  him,  although  we  neither 
of  us  felt  then  the  full  force  of  the  ruin  that 
had  come  upon  us.  We  parted  once  more, 
but  now  more  hopefully  than  the  first  time, 
for  we  both  believed  that  the  volcano  force  of 
our  passion  must  conquer  every  obstacle,  and 
that  could  we  but  wait,  fate  would  once  more 
grant  us  the  possibility  of  bliss." 

"  That  is  to  say,  that  Major   Strangford's 


wife  might  die,  as  Mr.  Charlton  had  already 
died,"  said  Beatrice,  her  face  resolutely  turned 
from  her  companion. 

"  Yes,  if  you  choose  to  put  it  so  coarsely. 
Too  restless  to  remain  at  his  post,  the  Major 
resigned  his  commission,  and  went  abroad 
with  the  woman  he  had  married.  She  had 
always  been  delicate  in  health,  and  now 
showed  symptoms  of  a  decline.  The  Major 
was  a  man  of  high-toned  Southern  honor, 
and  he  omitted  no  measure  for  her  recov 
ery  " 

"  She  probably  had  discovered  his  relations 
with  you,"  suggested  Beatrice  in  the  same 
resolutely  calm  voice. 

"Very  possibly,"  replied  Mrs.  Charlton  with 
composure.  "  At  any  rate,  she  sickened,  and 
the  Major's  constant  letters  to  me  spoke  al 
ways  of  her  failing  health.  They  went  to  the 
East,  and  after  that  I  knew  nothing,  for  his 
letters  failed  to  reach  me.  I  became  desperate 
with  anxiety  ;  and  the  necessity  of  concealing 
my  anxiety — for  it  was  this  very  last  winter, 
while  I  was  here  with  you — and  the  appear 
ance  of  gayety,  at  least,  must  be  kept  up,  or  I 
did  not  earn  the  home  your  uncle  was  giv 
ing  me. 

"Then  came  the  night  when  you  found 
Mr.  Monckton  speaking  to  me,  and  your  mad 
jealousy  forced  on  this  explanation.  He 
brought  me  a  package  and  a  letter — just  a  few 
lines,  but  oh  !  what  wealth  would  buy  them 
from  me  ?  For,  in  the  interior  of  Persia,  his 
wife  had  died  ;  he  had  buried  her,  and  was 
hastening  home  to  me,  when  a  sudden  fatal 
sickness  seized  him.  He  knew  it  was  fatal 
from  the  first,  and  he  wrote  with  his  dying 
hand  those  lines  to  me,  and  another  note  to 
Mr.  Monckton,  an  old  friend,  or  rather  travel 
ling  companion,  who  knew  all  our  sad  story, 
although  a  stranger  to  me.  He  sent  him  the 
amulet  which  I  had  hung  around  his  neck  at 
our  last  parting,  and  the  letter,  bidding  him 
break  the  news  to  me  gently,  and  to  shield 
me  from  observation  and  suspicion.  He  would 
not  send  to  me  directly,  because  he  feared  to 
compromise  me.  You  saw  Monckton  hang 
the  amulet  aroxmd  my  neck,  and  thought  it 
was  a  love-token — so  it  was,  so  it  is,  and  shall 
go  with  me  to  my  grave  ;  but  it  is  a  token  of  a 
love  in  which  neither  he  nor  you  have  any 
part — a  love  that  defies  death,  as  it  has  al 
ready  defied  life,  and  exists  to-day  in  all  the 
fervor,  all  the  omnipotence  of  its  earliest 
maturity." 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


87 


"  And  you  liave  engaged  to  marry  my  un 
cle  !"  exclaimed  Beatrice,  turning  her  horror- 
stricken  and  indignant  face  full  upon  the 
speaker. 

Mrs.  Charlton  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  Why  not '!"  asked  she.  "  I  give  him  all 
he  asks  or  can  appreciate — my  society,  my 
beauty,  my  social  position  ;  he  does  not  ex 
pect  love,  and  I  shall  not  fail  in  the  duty  and 
attention  of  a  wife  toward  him.  It  is  his  right 
by  purchase." 

"  Have  you,  or  will  you  tell  him  this  story  ?" 

"  Did  you  ever  know  me  to  commit  a  stu 
pidity  ?•' 

"  If  you  do  not,  I  win." 

"You  promised  me  that  you  would  not,  if 
you  will  take  the  trouble  to  remember." 

"  Oh  !  but  this  is  infamous !  You  cannot 
do  it !" 

"  We  shall  see.  But  what  do  you  mean, 
after  all  ?  Where  is  the  infamy  ?"  asked  Mrs. 
Charlton  patiently. 

"  Where  ?  Why  in  marrying  one  man  with 
your  heart  filled  with  love  for  another  ;  in  de 
ceiving  and  insulting  so  grossly  a  generous 
heart  that  has  given  itself  to  you,  believing 
that  it  received  yours  in  return." 

And  Beatrice,  trembling,  pale,  almost  chok 
ing  with  emotion,  fixed  her  clear  eyes  upon 
Mrs.  Charlton's  unflinching  face. 

The  latter  smiled  disdainfully. 

"  Your  argument  is  apt.  Mr.  Barstow  has 
paid  the  price  of  a  heart — and  has  a  right  to 
expect  a  heart — for  that  is  the  law  of  trade,  and 
he  is  a  trader.  But  I  am  no  defrauder ;  Mr 
Barstow  will  receive  at  my  hands  all,  and  more 
than  all  that  he  has  bargained  for.  I  have  told 
him  that  the  fire  and  passion  of  love  were  not 
to  be  expected  from  him  to  me,  or  me  to  him  ;  I 
have  promised  him  the  affection,  duty,  and  re 
spect  of  a  wife,  and  I  will  give  them  to  him. 
What  right  have  you  or  any  one  to  interfere  ?" 

"No  right,  perhaps,  and  yet  I  must  speak. 
How  can  I  see  this  go  on,  and  keep  silence  ?" 
exclaimed  Beatrice  in  great  agitation.  Mrs. 
Charlton  looked  at  her  unmoved. 

"  Again,  I  say,  I  do  not  understand  your 
horror,  or  your  desire  to  annoy  and  bore  your 
uncle  with  this  story,"  said  she.  "  Major 
Strangford  is  dead,  and  the  memory  I  retain 
of  him  lies  too  far  below  the  surface  to  be 
reached  by  any  plummet  in  Mr.  Barstow's 
hand.  Let  it  sink  out  of  your  sight  also,  and 
forget  what  I  have  said  to-day,  as  I  shall  cer 
tainly  appear  to  forget  it  myself." 


Beatrice  looked  at  her  doubtfully. 

"  Do  you  still  wear  this  amulet  he  sent 
you  ?"  asked  she. 

"  Certainly." 

"  And  will  continue  to  do  so  after  you  are 
married  ?" 

"  Until  I  die." 

"  That  in  itself  is  enough  to  condemn  you, 
for  it  shows  that  you  intend  to  perpetuate  the 
memory  you  affect  to  bury.  Can  you  retain 
the  gift,  and  forget  the  giver?" 

"  I  never  announced  the  slightest  intention 
of  forgetting  the  giver,''  said  Mrs.  Charlton 
coldly.  "  I  only  said  that  his  memory  would 
remain  buried  in  my  heart." 

"With  his  epitaph  blazoned  upon  your 
bosom,"  said  Beatrice  bitterly. 

"  You  become  epigrammatic,  which  shows 
that  you  are  losing  your  temper,"  said  Mrs. 
Charlton. 

Beatrice  looked  at  her  in  astonishment. 
"  How  can  a  woman  speak  of  a  life-long  love, 
and  yet  be  utterly  heartless  ?"  asked  she,  half 
aloud. 

"  Love  is  a  passion,  and  what  you  call  heart 
is  emotion,  prejudice,  weakness.  The  two  are 
seldom  united,"  said  Juanita,  in  precisely  the 
tone  of  good-humored  patience  with  which 
she  had  hitherto  instructed  Beatrice  in  the 
science  of  society.  But  this  conversation,  and 
perhaps  her  own  experience  of  the  last  week, 
had  changed  the  neophyte  to  an  adept,  and 
she  answered  coldly : 

"  Our  theories  differ  so  essentially  upon 
most  points,  that  it  is  not  best  for  either  to  try 
to  convert  the  other.  The  only  question  we 
have  to  solve  at  present  is,  what  action  you 
will  adopt  toward  my  uncle." 

"  I  have  already  solved  that  question,"  said 
Mrs.  Charlton  in  the  same  tone.  "  I  shall 
marry  your  uncle,  and  I  shall  behave  toward 
him  with  kindness  and  propriety.  He  will  be 
very  happy,  and  never  miss  what  he  never 
had,  or  expected  to  have,  or  could  comprehend, 
if  it  were  given  him.  The  revelation  you 
would  make  to  him,  in  the  way  you  would 
make  it,  would  nearly  destroy  his  present  hap 
piness,  and  give  him  no  other.  As  for  the 
rest,  '  let  the  dead  past  bury  its  dead,'  and  let 
you  and  I  be  good  friends,  and  harmonious 
companions,  as  it  is  our  mutual  interest  to  be. 
And,  above  all  things,  Beatrice,  never  refer  by 
word  or  look,  or  silence,  to  this  conversation 
between  us  two.  Close  the  chamber  I  have 
shown  you,  lock  the  door  and  let  the  ivy 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


grow  over  it — or,  if  you  like  it  better,  hide  it 
behind  the  French  flowers,  the  spangles,  the 
gaslight,  and  drop-curtain  of  society.  At  any 
rate,  forget  it." 

"  Why  did  you  ever  show  me  this  chamber  ?" 

"  I  promised  Mr.  Monckton  that  I  would  do 
BO  I" 

"  How  did  he  extort  this  promise  1" 

"  Extort  ?" 

"  Excuse  me.  How  did  he  persuade  you  to 
make  it  ?" 

"  Excuse  me  in  turn,  but  I  never  promised 
that  I  would  tell  that,  and  I  do  not  intend  to 
do  so." 

"  It  is  not  my  affair,  certainly,"  said  Be 
atrice,  pulling  the  check-rein,  and  through 
the  speaking-tube  giving  James  directions  to 
return  to  the  Grandarc  Hotel. 

"  But  here  is  something  which  is  your 
affair,"  said  Mrs.  Charlton,  drawing  from  be 
neath  her  muff  and  placing  in  Beatrice's 
hand  a  packet,  closely  sealed,  and  addressed 
to  herself. 

"  Mr.  Monckton  left  it  with  me  to  give  you 
after  this  conversation,"  said  she.  "  And  now 
tell  me  if  this  chilly  spring  weather  is  not  de 
testable?". 

Beatrice  bowed  her  head,  and  Mrs.  Charlton 
kept  up  a  cheerful  monologue,  until,  at  the 
door  of  her  hotel,  she  alighted  with  the  re 
mark  that  she  had  enjoyed  her  drive  exceed 
ingly. 

CHAPTER  XXXIII. 
A    GRAND    CLIMAX. 

So  soon  as  she  was  alone,  Beatrice  opened 
with  some  curiosity  and  a  little  apprehension 
the  package  Mrs.  Charlton  had  left  in  her 
hands.  Beneath  the  closely-sealed  envelope 
of  wrapping-paper  appeared  a  box  of  ebony, 
inlaid  with  gold,  in  a  rich  arabesque  pattern. 
A  little  golden  key  lay  upon  the  top,  and  Be 
atrice,  hastily  applying  it  to  the  lock,  raised 
the  cover,  and  sat  appalled  at  the  sight  before 
her.  Upon  a  cushion  of  white  satin  lay  a  set 
of  Oriental  turquoise  enriched  with  pearls,  a 
crescent  and  band  for  the  hair,  a  chain  of 
stars  for  the  neck,  and  bracelets  of  the  same 
device,  with  golden  pendants  wrought  in  va 
rious  cabalistic  forms. 

"Oh!  I  cannot  take  them!"  exclaimed  Be 
atrice  aloud  ;  and  just  then  perceived  a  little 
folded  slip  of  paper  among  the  jewels.  Open 
ing  it,  she  read : 


'  I  know  that  you  will  feel  remorseful,  because,  even 
without  fault  of  your  own,  you  have  done  me  an  injus 
tice  by  your  suspicions ;  and,  later  on,  have  dealt  me  a 
blow  whose  wound  will  endure  for  years.  To  natures 
ike  yours,  there  is  no  comfort  like  reparation  and 
atonement.  I  offer  you  the  opportunity  for  both  in 
this  set  of  trinkets,  brought  from  India  by  me  for  the 
unknown  lady  of  my  love.  If  you  will  take  them  and 
wear  them,  I  shall  feel  that  we  are  friends  once  more, 
and  that  you  have  forgiven  yourself  and  me  for  the  in 
jury  that  friendship  has  sustained.  Do  not  refuse  me 
this  amends ;  and  believe  me  always  while  I  live, 
"  Yours,  most  faithfully, 

"REGINALD  MONCKTON." 

"Mine,  most  faithfully,"  murmured  Be 
atrice  ;  "  and  the  man  whom  I  loved  so  well 
that  I  sacrificed  pride,  delicacy,  resolve  to 
him,  was  faithful  half  a  year,  and  then  took 
comfort  in  another  woman  !  I  wish  I  had 
loved  Reginald  Monckton  as  I  did  Marston 
Brent." 

And  then — for  such  is  woman — she  examined 
the  jewels,  appreciating  their  beauty,  recog 
nizing  the  rare  purity  of  the  pearls,  the  deep 
color  of  the  turquoise,  and  the  unique  style  of 
the  setting. 

Monckton,  wily  even  in  his  sincerest  dis 
play  of  emotion,  had  struck  the  right  chord  in 
the  manner  of  offering  his  gift.  Had  it  been 
laid  at  her  feet  as  a  tribute  to  her  charms,  or  as 
the  memorial  of  an  absent  and  despairing 
lover,  Beatrice  would  have  refused  it  without 
question  or  regret ;  but  Monckton  bid  her  ac 
cept  and  wear  the  jewels  in  token  that  she  re 
pented  the  involuntary  injustice  she  had  done 
him,  and  she  frankly  complied  with  his  re 
quest,  feeling,  as  he  intended,  that  the  obliga 
tion  was  from  her  to  him. 

But  when  she  reached  home,  Beatrice  laid 
aside  both  gift  and  giver,  and  sought  painfully 
and  eagerly  for  her  own  path  of  duty  in  the 
matter  of  Mrs.  Charlton's  marriage  with  her 
uncle.  True,  her  promise  bound  her  from  re 
peating  the  secret  she  had  learned  ;  but  could 
she  allow  the  marriage  to  go  on  without  op 
position  ?  Could  she  see  her  single-hearted, 
generous,  confiding  uncle  blindly  walk  into 
the  snare  this  woman,  disappointed  in  her 
love,  had  laid  for  him,  or  rather  for  his  world 
ly  advantages  ? 

These  were  questions  that  Beatrice  found 
herself  unable  to  answer,  and  she  still  sat 
pondering  there  in  the  early  twilight  when  a 
slow  step  ascended  the  stairs,  and  Mr.  Chap- 
pelleford  appeared  at  the  door  of  the  drawing- 
room.  Beatrice  rose  to  meet  him  with  some 
embarrassment,  for  in  her  thoughts  she  had 
unconsciously  linked  him  with  his  niece,  and 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


felt  as  if  her  unfavorable  opinion  must  be 
•written  upon  her  face. 

The  cynic  was  in  his  least  cynical  mood  ; 
and  the  first  greetings  over,  began  a  conversa 
tion  upon  the  topics  of  the  day,  in  which,  while 
affecting  to  despise  them,  he  always  contrived 
to  be  well  informed. 

But  Beatrice,  although  polite  and  cordial, 
found  it  impossible  to  interest  herself  in  what 
he  was  saying — a  fact  soon  perceived  by  Chap- 
pelleford,  who  closed  his  account  of  a  recent 
political  pageant  with  the  remark  : 

"  You  offer  poor  encouragement,  Miss  Wan- 
Bted,  for  me  to  assume  cap  and  bells  in  your  be 
half.  You  remind  me  of  some  story  I  have  read, 
where  Rowena,  or  Ermengarde,  or  Yolande 
Bays  to  the  zany  who  tries  to  charm  away  her 
love-sick  melancholy  :  '  Go  to,  fool !  Thy  jest 
ing  is  sadder  than  a  sermon,  and  I  will  have 
thee  whipped  for  a  false  fool,  who  knows  not 
even  folly !' " 

"  Your  mediaeval  beauty  was  unreasonable  ; 
but  you  say  she  was  suffering  from  a  disease 
I  never  yet  experienced.  Perhaps  that  was 
one  of  the  symptoms,"  said  Beatrice,  a  little 
vexed  at  the  suggestion. 

"  What !  love-sickness  ?  No,  I  did  not  sup 
pose  you  were  love-sick,"  said  Mr.  Chappelle- 
ford  with  composure. 

"  Thank  you  ;  I  should  be  very  sorry  if  you 
had." 

"  No,  your  complaint  is  an  ocular  one,"  pur 
sued  the  philosopher. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Mr.  Chappelleford  ?" 

"  Why,  like  a  young  kitten,  you  are  just 
getting  your  eyes  open,  and  the  operation  is  a 
painful  one." 

"I  suppose  I  must  accept  the  kitten,  since 
you  just  compared  yourself  to  a  fool,"  said  Be 
atrice,  smiling  languidly. 

"  I  am  sorry  for  you,  but  it  is  what  we  all 
go  through,  sooner  or  later ;  and  when  it  is 
once  over,  you  have  no  idea  how  comfortable 
you  will  find  yourself." 

"  Please  tell  me,  without  metaphor,  exactly 
•what  you  mean,  and  I  then  will  answer  you." 

"  What  I  mean  ?  Why,  that  you  are  a  good 
deal  shocked  to  find  that  Juanita  Charlton  has 
decided  to  sell  herself  to  your  uncle,  and  that 
he  is  idiot  enough  to  pay  his  hard- won  treasure 
for  so  damaged  a  piece  of  goods.  You  are  also 
shocked  at  the  sudden  downfall  of  the  fine 
cloud-palace  of  friendship  in  which  you  had 
elected  to  dwell  with  Mr.  Monckton,  and  you 
are  a  little  desolate  in  losing  the  stimulus  of 


his  presence.  Also,  you  are  dissatisfied  with 
your  own  prospects,  as  a  supernumerary  in  the 
houses  of  Mrs.  Israel  Barstow  and  Mrs.  Wyman 
Bliss.  Finally,  there  is  the  old  grievance  of 
the  faithless  lover,  whom  you  believe  you  no 
longer  love,  but  whom  you  do  not  forget. 
Now,  every  one  of  these  disappointments  and 
annoyances  would  have  been  foreseen  and 
prevented  had  your  eyes  been  open  wide 
enough  to  see  their  approach.  I  could  have 
warned  you  of  several  of  them." 

"  Which  ?"  asked  Beatrice  faintly. 

"  Why,  Mrs.  Charlton's  designs  upon  Mr. 
Barstow,  and  the  termination  of  your  friend 
ship  with  Mr.  Monckton." 

"  Why  did  you  not  warn  me?" 

"  Twenty  years  ago,  I  should  probably  have 
done  so,  and  have  made  enemies  of  four  per 
sons  with  whom  I  do  not  wish  to  enter  into 
such  intimate  relations  as  enmity.     Now  I  am' 
wiser." 

"  A  selfish  wisdom,  it  seems  to  me,  that  pre 
vents  your  saving  the  man  for  whom  you  pro 
fess  friendship." 

Beatrice  paused,  perceiving  to  what  discour 
tesy  her  impulsive  remark  was  leading.  Mr. 
Chappelleford  grimly  smiled. 

"  Saving  him  from  my  niece,  you  were 
about  to  add,"  said  he.  "  The  remark  is  frank 
and  youthful.  But,  in  the  first  place,  I  pro 
fess  friendship  for  no  man  ;  and  in  the  next,  I 
am  by  no  means  certain  that  it  is  a  bad  thing 
for  Mr.  Barstow  to  marry  Mrs.  Charlton.  He 
gives  money  and  a  settled  position  in  ex 
change  for  beauty,  wit,  and  a  facility  in  socie 
ty,  which  he  mistakes  for  talent.  Nobody 
says  any  thing  about  love,  faith,  or  sincerity — 
the  myths  upon  which  your  theories  of  mar 
riage  are  based.  The  parties  to  the  bargain 
are  content — why  should  you  or  I  grumble  ?" 

"  If  the  matter  is  fairly  understood  by  both, 
perhaps  we  should  not,"  said  Beatrice,  hesi 
tatingly.  "  But  I  fear  that  my  uncle  is  de 
ceived." 

"  In  the  matter  of  Mr.  Monckton's  commu 
nication  from  Major  Strangford  V"  asked 
Chappelleford  coolly ;  and  then,  as  Beatrice, 
coloring  scarlet  with  surprise,  sat  blankly 
looking  at  him.  he  added,  with  a  laugh  : 

"  Oh  !  yes,  I  know  it  all.  I  knew  of  the  affair 
from  its  commencement,  and  warned  Juanita 
that  I  should  not  permit  her  to  make  a  family 
scandal,  even  if  she  chose  to  throw  away  the 
worldly  position,  which  is  the  only  thing  in 
the  world  for  which  she  cares.  Then,  when 


90 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


you  took  her  confidences  with  Monckton  to 
heart,  I  compelled  her  to  repeat  them  to  me 
She  is  always  submissive  in  my  hands,  he- 
cause  I  neither  admire  nor  love  her,  and  do  un 
derstand  her  thoroughly.  She  told  me  the 
whole,  and  had  already  promised  me  to  set 
you  right  upon  the  matter  when  Monckton 
returned  from  his  fruitless  visit  to  Milvor,  and 
she  was  shrewd  enough  to  make  a  separate 
bargain  with  him.  He  used  a  bribe,  and  I  a 
threat,  and  she  was  equally  open  to  hoth. 
Neither  would  have  succeeded  with  you,  but 
liers  is  a  meaner  nature." 

"  Is  it  right  that  you  should  tell  me  what 
the  bribe  and  the  threat  were  ?"  asked  Be 
atrice. 

'•  Why  not  ?  I  threatened  to  lay  the  matter 
before  both  Mr.  Barstow  and  you,  and  Monck 
ton  gave  her  a  set  of  jewels.  The  provident 
fellow  came  home  from  the  heart  of  India,  re- 
Bolvod  to  find  a  wife,  and  not  knowing  wheth 
er  she  would  be  blonde  or  brown,  brought  a 
Bet  of  turquoise  and  a  set  of  garnet  as  his  be 
trothal  present.  You  disappointed  his  hopes, 
and  Juanita  failed  to  secure  him,  but  he  gave 
you  two  his  two  gifts,  and  has  gone  away 
fancying  himself  heart-broken.  That  is  the 
way  the  plans  men  lay  are  apt  to  terminate." 

"  How  do  you  know  every  tiling  ?"  asked 
Beatrice,  looking  in  terror  at  the  cold,  impas 
sive  face  of  this  man,  who,  without  emotion, 
sympathy,  or  curiosity,  succeeded  in  reading 
the  lives  of  those  about  him  like  an  open 
book. 

"  How  do  1 1  Oh  !  my  eyes  were  opened  a 
good  many  years  ago,  as  yours  are  opening 
to-day.  After  the  process  is  complete,  you 
also  will  see  what  is  about  you." 

"  I  do  not  wish  to,  if,  like  you,  I  am  to  find 
deceit,  selfishness,  and  folly  upon  every  side," 
said  Beatrice  sadly.  "  What  do  you  leave  me 
to  found  any  confidence  upon  ?" 

"  Not  men,  certainly,  nor  yet  women,"  re 
plied  the  cynic.  "  Put  them  out  of  the  ques 
tion  once  for  all,  and  turn  your  mind  to  more 
important  matters.  Read  Hugh  Miller,  and 
found  your  confidence  upon  the  '  Old  Red 
Sandstone ;'  read  Ruskin,  and  expand  your 
imaginative  powers  in  following  out  his  the 
ories  ;  read  Hegel,  and  strengthen  your  think 
ing  powers  by  trying  to  follow  his  ;  and  then 
go  to  Nature,  and  you  will  find  sympathy  and 
healing  in  her  manifold  forms  of  beauty.  The 
trees  will  not  deceive  you  ;  the  sky  and  water 
profess  no  constancy ;  the  stars  ask  not  your 


secrets,  nor  reveal  their  own.  These  are  the 
only  safe  friends,  and  to  these  you  yet  will 
turn  for  comfort." 

He  spoke  with  an  earnestness  that  carried 
conviction,  and  Beatrice  raised  her  melancholy 
eyes  appealingly  to  his. 

"  These  are  your  friends,  I  see  it,"  said  she. 
"  Bring  me  to  them,  teach  me  how  to  know 
them.  It  is  so  desolute  to  set  forth  all  alone 
upon  a  new  path.  O  Mr.  Chappelleford !  if 
you  would  say  that  you  were  my  friend,  I 
would  believe  you." 

"  Foolish  child  !  Have  I  not  this  moment 
finished  telling  you  that  human  friendship  is 
naught,  and  less  than  naught  ?  and  for  answer 
you  beg  me  to  help  you  cheat  yourself  yet 
once  more.  Have  you  not  j  ust  tried  the  experi 
ment  with  this  man  Moncktfin,  and  failed  most 
signally  ?  There  is  no  such  thing  as  friend 
ship  between  man  and  woman — either  it  is 
companionship  founded  on  mutual  interests, 
or  it  is  mere  acquaintanceship,  or  it  is  a  Jesuit 
ical  love — sure,  sooner  or  later,  to  throw  off  the 
mask  and  claim  its  reward.  Monckton's  was 
of  this  nature,  and  I  knew  it  from  the  first. 
No,  Miss  Wansted,  I  will  not  pretend  to  be 
your  friend,  for  it  would  be  a  pretence  with 
out  rational  foundation  ;  but  I  will,  if  you  wish 
it,  be  your  tutor,  your  adviser,  your  companion. 
I  will  introduce  you  to  those  friends  of  mine 
of  whom  I  spoke  but  now,  and  teach  you  how 
to  know  them.  1  will  give  you  fruit  of  the 
tree  of  knowledge,  instead  of  the  husks  upon 
which  you  so  far  have  fed,  and  I  will  help  you 
limb  the  heights  of  thought  and  reason, 
where  alone  peace  dwells  serene.  Shall  I  do 
this  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes !"  cried  Beatrice,  with  feverish 
agerness.  "  All  that  I  thought  to  find  in  life 
lias  failed  me :  love,  friendship,  the  world — 
they  are  all  alike  hollow  and  deceitful.  Give 
me  knowledge,  teach  me  philosophy,  lead  me 
to  those  cold  heights  where  you  find  peace — 
all  else  I  leave  behind." 

"  Come,  then,  poor,  ruffled,  storm-beat  bird — 
poor,  lost  child,  come  and  be  my  pupil,  my 
harge,  and  at  least  I  will  never  deceive  you," 
said  Chappelleford,  with  a  most  unwonted 
tenderness  shining  in  his  eyes,  ordinarily  so 
sad  and  so  severe.  "  But,  Beatrice,  to  make 
his  companionship  practicable,  you  must  be 
come  my  wife.  I  shall  not  continue  to  visit 
familiarly  in  this  house  after  my  niece  be- 
omes  its  mistress,  nor  could  I  see  you  else 
where.  You  must  come  to  me  in  the  only 


THE   SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


91 


manner  in  which  man  and  woman  are  allowed 
to  live  together." 

"  Marry  you,  Mr.  Chappelleford  !"  exclaimed 
Beatrice  in  dismay.  "  But  I  do  not  love  you 
— I  cannot !" 

"  Have  I  asked  you  to  love  me  ?  Have  I 
professed  to  love  you?  Have  I  ever  alluded 
to  any  such  weak  and  stupid  delusion  upon 
either  side  '?  Is  not  the  very  foundation  of  the 
education  I  propose  for  you  an  emancipation 
from  all  such  romantic  credulity  as  you  now 
evince  ?  What  I  wish  is  to  make  a  rational 
being  out  of  a  woman  ;  and,  to  do  this,  the 
woman  must  be  directly  and  constantly  under 
my  influence,  and  this  can  only  be  effected  by 
making  her  my  wife.  This  is  my  motive,  and 
yours  is  immunity  from  deception,  increased 
knowledge,  and  a  content — or  at  least  a  calm 
— infinitely  superior  to  what  you  call  happi 
ness.  You  see  I  do  not  deceive  you.  What 
is  your  answer  ?" 

"  I  will  marry  you,  Mr.  Chappelleford,  just 
as,  under  other  circumstances,  I  would  enter  a 
convent." 

"  Yes,  either  course  is  the  refuge  of  a  sick 
heart — the  one  dictated  by  reason,  the  other 
by  superstition,"  said  Mr.  Chappelleford. 

Beatrice  made  no  reply ;  and  so,  in  the 
deepening  twilight  sat  the  betrothed  pair — 
she,  her  head  bent  upon  her  breast,  her  hands 
idly  folded  in  her  lap,  gazing  drearily  into  the 
glowing  coals — he,  shading  his  eyes  with  his 
hand  as  he  leaned  upon  the  chimney-piece, 
and  steadfastly  regarded  her. 

So  passed  a  half  hour,  and  then  Mr.  Bar- 
stow  entered,  to  whom  spoke  Vezey  Chap 
pelleford  half  kindly,  half  in  disdain  of  him 
self  and  all  men : 

"  Mr.  Barstow,  I  have  given  you  my  niece  in 
marriage,  and  now  compensate  myself  by  tak 
ing  yours.  Miss  Wansted  kindly  promises  to 
become  my  wife." 

"  Why,  why,  Trix  !  this  isn't  true,  surely  ! 
Have  you  promised  to  marry  Chappelleford, 
Trix  ?" 

"  Yes,  uncle,  and  shall  keep  the  promise/' 
said  Miss  Wansted  in  a  voice  of  icy  calm  ;  and 
rising,  she  left  the  room  before  another  word 
was  spoken. 

CHAPTER  XXXIV. 
THE  OMEN  IN  THE  AIR. 

HIGH  above  the  crests  of  the  hemlocks  hung 
the  June  sky,  deep,  clear,  and  soft ;  the  heat 
of  noon-day  brought  out  the  balsamic  odors 


of  fir  and  spruce ;  just  within  reach  of  eye 
and  ear  the  full-bosomed  Sachawissa  sang 
her  song  of  life  and  love,  as  she  hastened  to 
her  marriage  with  the  sea  ;  all  sights  and 
sounds  spoke  harmoniously  of  free  and  joyous 
existence,  and  of  fullest  content  in  being  ;  and 
man,  God's  last  and  greatest  work,  might  well 
be  joyous  when  all  beneath  him  was  so  glad. 

So  thought  Marston  Brent,  standing  with 
bowed  head  beneath  the  arches  of  the  wood, 
and  feeling  a  new  life  stirring  in  the  heart 
that  so  long  had  lain  cold  and  dead  within 
him. 

"  When  all  else  feels  God's  beneficent  kind 
ness,  why  should  we  two  be  miserable '("  said 
he  aloud.  "  In  some  way,  we  shall  yet  be 
brought  together,  and  without  falsehood  to 
each  other  or  to  ourselves.  Then  comes  happi 
ness,  which  shall  compensate  a  hundred-fold  for 
all  these  weary  months,  or  even  years.  I  feel 
it  in  the  air  to-day  that  I  am  to  receive  good 
news  of  my  darling — none  the  less  mine  that 
her  mistaken  will  divides  us  for  the  present. 
In  all  the  manifold  and  unexpected  develop 
ments  of  life,  one  is  approaching  which  shall 
bring  us  again  together " 

"  Mr.  Brent !" 

"  What,  Comfort,  is  that  you  ?    Here  am  I." 

Down  the  long  arches  of  the  wood  came 
running  a  light  girlish  figure,  a  bright  and 
blooming  face,  two  eager  eyes  searching  for 
him,  and  a  voice  breathless  with  delight  and 
haste. 

"O  Mr.  Brent !  Richard  has  come  home,  and 
he  got  you  a  newspaper,  and  I  knew  you  would 
be  so  glad,  for  you  were  wishing  this  morning 
you  had  told  him  to  try  and  get  one,  and  none 
of  us  supposed  he  would.  So  I  ran  right  out 
to  find  you,  and  bring  it." 

"  Thanks,  my  little  Comfort.  You  are  al 
ways  ready  to  run  when  you  think  you  can  do 
me  a  service."  said  Brent  kindly,  and  Ruth, 
looking  frankly  up  into  his  face,  said  with  a 
smile : 

"  Of  course  I  am  glad  to  do  a  little  for  you 
who  do  so  much  for  me." 

"  Nonsense,  child,  and  nonsense  again. 
Aren't  you  my  Comfort?"  said  Brent,  half 
jestingly,  half  tenderly,  and  seating  himself 
upon  a  felled  hemlock-trunk  beside  the  path, 
he  opened  his  week-old  newspaper  with  the 
hungry  haste  of  a  man  who  has  been  too  long 
divided  from  the  world,  whose  affairs  are  still 
his  own. 

Ruth — if  this  blithe,  rosy,  smiling  maiden, 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


•whose  every  motion  spoke  health  and  light- 
hearted  content,  could  indeed  be  the  Ruth 
whom  we  last  saw  a  pallid  and  tremulous 
fugitive  from  a  horrible  accusation — Ruth 
went  singing  through  the  wood,  stopping  now 
to  pluck  a  berry  or  a  flower,  now  to  mimic 
the  strains  of  linnet  or  blackbird  in  the  tree- 
tops,  now  to  drink  in  the  beauty  of  the  day  and 
scene.  At  last,  when  she  thought  he  might 
be  ready  to  speak  to  her,  she  returned  to 
Brent.  He  still  was  sitting  as  she  had  left 
him  upon  the  hemlock-log,  the  paper  hanging 
idly  from  one  hand,  the  other  supporting  his 
chin,  while  his  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the 
ground  with  such  a  look  of  white  despair  as 
Ruth  had  never  seen  in  her  life  before. 


*'  He  was  sitting  on  the  hemlock  toff." 

Half  terrified,  half  eager  to  console  her 
friend,  the  girl  drew  near  and  stood  beside 
him.  He  neither  moved  nor  spoke. 

"  Mr.  Brent !"  said  she  softly. 

No  answer,  for,  indeed,  he  had  not  heard 
her ;  and  the  child,  growing  bold  in  her  alarm, 
seated  herself  beside  him,  and  laid  a  hand 
upon  his  arm. 

"  Please  tell  me  what  has  happened,"  said 
she  tremulously.  Brent  started,  and  raised 
such  wild,  fierce  eyes  to  hers  that  she  shrunk 
from  his  side,  and  then  crept  yet  closer  to  it. 


"  Something  has  happened !  Oh  !  tell  me 
what  it  is,  dear,  dear  Mr.  Brent,"  moaned  she. 

"  Something !  Well,  yes  ;  it  might  be  called 
something  here  in  the  woods,  although  in  the 
world,  I  suppose,  it  would  be  called  nothing," 
replied  Brent  huskily ;  and  then  he  snatched 
the  paper  from  the  ground,  laid  his  finger 
upon  a  paragraph,  and  thrust  it  before  Ruth's 
tearful  eyes. 

"  Read  that !" 

She  meekly  obeyed.     It  was  this  : 

"On  "Wednesday  last,  Vezey  Chappelleford,  Esq., 
the  distinguished  antiquarian,  philologist,  and  histo 
rian,  was  united  in  marriage  to  Miss  Beatrice  Wangled, 
niece  of  our  respected  fellow-citizen,  Israel  Barstow, 
Esq.,  at  whose  house  the  strictly  private  ceremony 
took  place.  The  happy  pair,  after  a  breakfast  propor 
tioned  rather  to  the  means  of  the  host  than  the  num 
ber  of  the  guests,  went  directly  on  board  the  Ethiopia, 
and  sailed  within  the  hour  for  Europe,  and  still  more 
distant  points.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  Mr.  Chappelle 
ford  will  enrich  the  public  mind  with  the  fruit  of  his 
travels,  either  through  the  press,  or  from  the  rostrum, 
soon  after  his  return,  and  that  all  foreigners  not  yet 
converted  to  faith  in  the  preeminent  loveliness  of 
American  ladies  may  have  an  opportunity  of  seeing 
this  fair  bride,  and  judging  from  her  as  a  specimen." 

Ruth  read  this  paragraph  attentively,  and 
laid  the  paper  down  with  a  puzzled  face. 

"  Did  you  know  Mr.  or  Mrs.  Chappelleford  ?" 
asked  she. 

"  Did  I  know  her  ?  Child  !  I  had  no  more 
doubt  that  she  and  I  should  stand  together 
hand  in  hand  before  God's  throne,  if  not  be 
fore  His  earthly  altar,  than  I  had  that  we 
both  breathed.  I  never  once  dreamed  that 
she  could  do  this  thing.  O  Beatrice !  How 
little  one  life  seems  in  comparison  with  the 
eternity  I  had  hoped  to  pass  with  you,  and 
now,  now O  my  God  1  I  cannot  think  !" 

And  starting  to  his  feet,  Brent  raised  to 
Heaven  a  face  so  wild,  so  ghastly,  so  despair 
ing,  that  the  tender  girl  watching  him  hid  her 
own  in  terror,  while  he,  glaring  about  him  for 
a  moment  as  doubtful  where  to  turn  for  refuge, 
dashed  away  into  the  wood,  and  was  presently 
lost  to  sight  and  hearing. 

Ruth  watched  him  so  long  as  she  could  fol 
low  his  course,  and  then  taking  the  crumpled 
paper  from  the  ground,  she  folded  it  carefully, 
and  hid  it  in  her  pocket. 

"  He  will  come  back  after  a  while,  and  I 
will  wait  for  him,"  said  she  softly,  and  sat  pa 
tiently  until  he  slowly  approached  through 
the  forest,  his  bent  figure,  painful  steps,  and 
haggard  face  showing  the  work  that  years 
should  not  have  done. 

He  came  straight  toward  the  place  where 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


93 


she  sat,  and  yet  had  so  forgotten  her  pres 
ence  there,  that  he  started  back  in  recogniz 
ing  it. 

"I  was  looking I  left  a  paper  here," 

said  he  in  a  low  voice. 

Ruth  handed  it  to  him,  glancing  sadly,  yet 
not  inquiringly,  into  his  face  as  she  did  so. 

"  I  thought  you  would  come  to  look  for  it 
here,  and  1  waited  to  give  it  to  you,"  said  she. 

"  Thank  you.  Oh  1  yes ;  I  remember  you 
were  here." 

And  Brent  was  turning  away  when  a  new 
idea  crossed  his  mind,  and  he  returned. 

"  Comfort !" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  You  like  to  help  me,  to  make  me  happy, 
do  you  not  ?" 

"  You  know  that  I  do,  sir.  I  like  it  better 
than  any  thing." 

"  That  is  the  reason  I  call  you  Comfort. 
Well,  dear  little  girl,  remember  that  you 
never  can  do  half  so  much  to  help  me  in  any 
other  way  as  you  can  by  keeping  this  secret — 
what  you  know  of  it." 

"  I  will  keep  it,  sir,  and  I  should  have  kept 
it,  if  you  had  not  spoken." 

"  I  do  not  doubt  you  would,  Comfort,  I  do 
not  doubt  it,  if  you  saw  that  it  was  a  secret, 
but  I  did  not  know  that  you  understood.  I 
cannot  tell  you  any  thing  more  than  you  saw 
for  yourself;  but  I  dare  say  you  guess  the 
whole.  It  is  not  a  thing  of  which  I  shall  ever 
speak  after  this  moment,  and  it  is  a  thing  I 
shall  never  forget.  But  we  will  appear  to 
forget  it,  both  of  us,  and  perhaps  you  will — it 
is  nothing  to  you,  but  to  me " 

And  he  wandered  down  the  path  mutter 
ing  to  himself— the  broken  tone,  the  uneven 
gait,  the  crushed  look  of  the  whole  proud 
figure,  more  like  those  of  some  luckless  fugi 
tive  from  a  torture-chamber  than  the  free, 
noble  bearing  of  Marston  Brent. 

Ruth  rose,  and  slowly  followed  until  she 
saw  him  close  beside  the  shanty,  and  then  she 
turned  back  a  few  paces  into  the  wood. 

"O  Beatrice  Wansted,  Beatrice  Chappelle- 
ford,  how  I  hate  and  detest  you?"  cried  she, 
clenching  her  slender  hands,  and  shaking 
them  in  the  air. 

"  What  are  you,  or  any  woman  in  the  world, 
compared  with  such  a  man  as  this  !  And  he 
said  it  was  nothing  to  me,  and  that  I  should 
soon  forget  it,  and  he  told  me  not  to  betray 
his  secret !  How  little  he  knows  me,  after  all ! 
But  I  hope  that  hateful  woman  will  have  to 


suffer  yet,  two  pains  for  every  one  she  has  given 
him  to-day  !  I  hope  she  will,  and  if  I  could 
give  them  to  her,  I  would." 

And  then  Ruth,  her  mind  slightly  relieved 
of  its  burning  anger  and  grief,  returned  slowly 
to  the  house,  where  Zilpah  had  long  since  pre 
pared  a  reprimand  for  her. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 
ALMOST   A   DEATH-BLOW. 

THE  next  morning,  Ruth  watched  for 
Brent's  appearance  with  an  anxiety  almost 
impossible  to  conceal,  but  to  her  infinite 
relief,  the  night  had  brought  him  at  least 
the  semblance  of  peace,  and  although  a  little 
paler,  a  little  brighter-eyed,  and  graver  than 
his  wont,  there  was  nothing  in  his  looks  or  his 
demeanor  that  would  have  attracted  the  at 
tention  of  an  observer. 

Breakfast  over,  he  followed  his  men  out  of 
doors. 

"  You  will  finish  that  clump  at  the  east  side 
of  the  hill  where  you  were  yesterday,"  said 
he,  "  and  I  will  come  along  too." 

"  That's  right,  Cap'n.  The  fellers  work  just 
twice  as  smart  when  you're  'round,"  said  Rich 
ard  aside  ;  and  Ruth,  creeping  up  at  the  other 
hand,  softly  asked : 

"  May  I  go  too  1" 

"  What,  into  the  woods,  Comfort  ?  Why, 
yes,  if  you  like,  and  Zilpah  will  spare  you," 
said  Brent,  looking  kindly  down  at  the  girl, 
who  darted  back  into  the  house. 

"  I  am  going  out  for  a  little  while,  Zilpah — 
Mr.  Brent  said  that  I  might — and  I  will  do  my 
work  when  I  come  back  ;  you  can  leave  it  all 
for  me,"  said  she,  snatching  her  hat  from  the 
wooden  peg  where  it  hung,  and  hurrying  away 
before  the  old  woman  could  remonstrate. 

"  Well,  I  declare !"  exclaimed  she,  following 
as  far  as  the  door,  and  standing  there  with' 
arms  akimbo,  to  watch  the  procession  of  oxen 
and  drags — accompanied  by  the  lumberers  in 
the  picturesque  costume  of  the  woods,  and 
followed  by  Brent's  stately  form,  with  Ruth 
tripping  lightly  beside  him — as  it  wound  slow 
ly  in  among  the  trees,  which  presently  hid  all 
but  now  the  glimpse  of  u  scarlet  shirt,  now 
the  glint  of  an  axe-blade,  or  the  polished  balla 
upon  the  oxen's  horns,  now  Brent's  towering 
head,  or  his  Comfort's  floating  skirts. 

"  Well,  I  declare  1"  repeated  Zilpah.  "  Trapse- 
ing  off  to  the  woods  again,  and  leaving  me 
with  all  the  work  to  do  !  And  Marston  won't 
let  any  one  say  a  word  to  her,  more  than  if 


94 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


she  was  a  feather  and  would  blow  away  in  tlie 
wind.  I  don't  see  what  Paul  Freeman's  think 
ing  on,  if  lie  calc'lates  to  have  the  charge  of 
her,  to  let  her  be  following  round  after  Brent 
this  fashion.  Any  way,  I  didn't  stretch  it 
much,  only  just  a  leetle  mite,  when  I  wrote 
Nancy  that  they  was  going  to  be  married  some 
time,  for  I  shouldn't  be  took  aback  any  day  to 
hear  that  it  was  BO.  She's  most  fifteen,  and 
my  aunt  Polly  Jane's  sister  was  married  when 
she  was  sixteen.  All  I  hope  is,  them  stuck-up 
Barstow  folks  and  Beatrice  Wansted  heard  of 
it.  That's  all  I  want." 

So  Zilpah  went  back  to  the  dishes,  and  the 
procession,  winding  through  the  wood,  fresh 


"BrenPs  stalely  form,  with  Ruth  tripping  beside  him." 


with  the  cool  purity  of  the  summer  morning, 
came  at  last  to  the  hillside,  already  half  strip 
ped  of  timber,  where  the  day's  work  had  been 
appointed.  The  ground  above  was  strewn 
with  felled  timber,  chips,  branches,  and  sheets 
of  bark,  left  as  the  men  had  abandoned  them 
•upon  the  previous  evening  :  and  while  a  cer 
tain  number  of  choppers  attacked  fresh  trees, 
others  applied  themselves  to  peeling  those  al 
ready  felled,  cutting  them  into  lengths,  and 
hauling  away  the  logs  to  be  piled  beside  the 
principal  road  of  the  forest,  there  to  lie  until 


-lie  next  winter's  snow  afforded  facility  for 
sledding  them  to  the  river. 

Ruth  watched  all  these  operations  with  in 
terest — always,  however,  keeping  close  to 
Brent,  who  superintended  every  thing  with  a 
sharp  decision  of  manner  which  induced  from 
Richard  the  remark  : 

"  Tell  you  what,  Paul,  the  old  man's  wide 
awake  to-day.  There  a'n't  no  chance  for 
shirking,  I  can  tell  you." 

"  I  don't  know  as  any  one  wants  to  shirk," 
replied  Paul  rather  sullenly.  "  I  don't,  for 
one ;  nor  I  don't  want  to  be  drove  round  as  if 
I  was  a  nigger,  neither." 

"  Seems  to  me  you  got  out  o'  bed  wrong  foot 
foremost,  young  one,"  replied  Richard  good- 
naturedly  ;  and  shouldering  his  axe,  he  walked 
from  the  tree  he  had  just  felled  to  the  next 
a  monster  hemlock,  three  feet  in  diameter 
at  least  two  hundred  in  height. 
'  Four,  maybe  five  market-logs  in  you,  old 
fellow,  if  there's  an  inch,"  remarked  Richard, 
softly  whistling  as  he  measured  the  giant  with 
his  eye,  and  calculated  its  contents. 

"  Here,  Jebson,"  continued  he,  calling  to  his 
especial  mate,  who  was  still  busy  with  the  last 
tree.  "  You  come  and  peel  a  section  of  bark 
off  this  thumper,  while  1  fix  a  bed  for  him  to 
tumble  into." 

Jebson,  obedient  to  the  call,  approached,  si 
lently  measured  the  treejurtlifi-efner  had  done, 
and  then  shortening  his  keen  axe  in  his 
hand,  cut  a  ring  through  the  bark  of  the  hem 
lock  close  to  its  roots,  and  another  four  feet 
above  it ;  the  next  movement  was  to  connect 
these  by  a  perpendicular  line  ;  and  then  throw 
ing  down  his  axe,  Jebson  took  up  a  spud,  an 
instrument  resembling  a  chisel,  but  curved  to 
fit  the  boll  of  a  tree,  and  proceeded  to  loosen 
the  bark,  which  he  did  so  nicely  that  it  pres 
ently  fell,  an  entire  sheet,  beside  the  tree,  and 
was  carefully  removed  to  a  pile  of  similar 
sheets  close  at  hand. 

Richard  meantime  had  felled  and  laid  side  by 
side  a  couple  of  middling-sized  birch-trees, 
growing  near  the  hemlock,  and  now  so  dis 
posed  as  to  receive  it  in  its  fall  and  prevent  its 
imbedding  itself  in  the  earth,  as  it  otherwise 
would  have  done. 

"  All  ready  now  Jebson,"  said  Richard  brief 
ly,  and  swinging  his  axe  high  above  his  head, 
he  buried  it  in  the  bared  trunk  of  the  hem 
lock  ;  as  he  withdrew  it,  Jebson's  fell ;  and  so 
with  swift  alternation,  the  murderers,  as  Ruth 
mentally  styled  them,  pursued  their  work  un- 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN 


95 


til  tlie  slender  tip  of  the  hemlock,  lying  like 
a  finger  upon  the  sky,  trembled  visibly,  and  a 
shiver  ran  through  the  stately  trunk  to  its  re 
motest  plumy  branch. 

"  Hold  on,  Jebson  !  She  wants  trimming  a 
little ;  we  aren't  falling  her  square  on  the 
bed,"  said  Richard,  pausing  to  wipe  his  stream 
ing  brow  and  glance  anxiously  aloft.  Then 
while  Jebson  waited,  the  exporter  woodsman 
cut  deeper  into  the  heart  of  the  tree  in  j 
desired  direction,  hesitated,  looked  aloft,  and 
then  dropping  his  axe-head  to  the  ground, 
stood  leaning  upon  the  handle,  attentively  re 
garding  the  tree,  whose  topmost  branches,  still 
thrilling  as  if  with  their  death-agony,  slowly 
began  to  describe  upon  the  cloudless  sky  the 
first  line  of  the  great  arc  in  which  they  were 
to  sweep  earthward  ;  at  the  same  moment,  the 
sharp  sound  of  rending  the  fibres  knit  by 
years  of  deliberate  growth  became  audible, 
and  its  heart-strings  snapped  at  last,  the  great 
tree  came  plunging  and  crashing  to  the  earth, 
tearing  through  the  branches  of  such  srnal]jer 
growth  as  stood  in  its  path,  and  falling'"fairly 
at  the  last  upon  the  bed  prepared  for  it. 

"  A  good  stick  of  timber  that,  Cap'n  ;  five 
good  markets  if  there's  one,  as  I  said  before 
I  struck  it,"  said  Richard,  viewing  his  work 
complacently,  while  Ruth,  hardly  yet  able  to 
draw  a  full  breath  after  the  emotion  of  the 
scene,  came  timidly  forward,  and  looked  at  the 
great  stump  with  its  fresh-cut  wounds. 

"  Poor  tree  !  It  had  been  so  long  growing, 
and  maybe  knew  that  it  was  growing,  and 
now  it  is  nothing  but  wood  for  burning,"  said 
she  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Not  wood  for  burning,  Ruthie,"  said  Paul 
Freeman,  who,  with  a  spud  in  one  hand  and  an 
axe  in  the  other,  was  approaching  the  tree  on 
the  same  side  with  herself.  "  These  hemlocks 
are  cut  full  as  much  for  the  bark  as  any  thing 
else  ;  they  use  it  at  the  tannery,  you  know, 
and  the  logs  are  floated  down  the  river  and 
sawed  into  boards.  It  wouldn't  pay  to  cut 
such  timber  as  this  for  firewood." 

"  And  what  part  do  you  do,  Paul  ?"  asked 
the  girl,  feeling  with  a  little  remorse  that  she 
had  not  been  as  attentive  of  late  to  her  old 
friend  as  he  had  a  right  to  expect. 

"  I'm  a  peeler.  First  come  the  fellers — that's 
the  ones  that  cut  down  the  tree,  you  know — 
and  then  the  peelers  cut  the  bark  into  lengths 
and  peel  it  off,  just  as  Jebson  did  before  he 
and  Richard  felled  this  tree  ;  and  then  the 
hewers  cut  the  trunk  into  logs  about  fifteen 


foot  long  ;  and  then  the  teamsters  carry  off  logs 
and  bark,  and  skid  them  up,  ready  to  be  sleded 
off  next  winter." 

"  Yes,  I  have  seen  almost  all  those  things 
done  this  morning,"  said  Ruth,  "  and  I  always 
wanted  to  come  out  with  the  jnen  before,  but 
Zilpah  never  would  let  me.  I  only  come  now 
because  1  asked  Mr.  Brent  first." 

"  Yon  might  have  come  with  me  most  any 
time,'"  said  Paul  jealously,  and  just  then  Brent 
approached  the  spot,  saying : 

"  Comfort,  I  am  going  to  look  at  the  new 
skids  the  men  are  laying  up  on  the  road  to 
the  river :  do  you  want  to  come  ?  It  is  about 
half  a  mile  from  here." 

"  Oh  !  yes,  sir,"  said  Ruth  hastily ;  and  Paul, 
looking  after  her  as  she  followed  Brent  with 
glad  alacrity,  threw  down  his  tools,  and 
snatched  the  goad  from  the  hand  of  a  team 
ster  just  guiding  his  oxen  with  the  faintly 
traced  path  the  drags  had  worn. 
x^Here,  Jim,"  said  he  hurriedly.  "You 
help  those  fellows  get  their  loads  aboard,  and 
I'll  team  this  to  the  skids  for  you.  You  said 
you  didn't  want  to  walk  on  that  sore  foot." 

"  All  right,  mate,  no  more  I  don't,"  said  the 
man,  a  little  astonished,  but  well  content ;  and 
resigning  his  place  to  Paul,  he  picked  up  an 
iron  bar  and  turned  to  help  his  comrades  roll 
the  logs  prepared  for  transportation  upon  their 
drags. 

"  I  don't  know  as  you'll  be  able  to  help  up 
these  logs,  Freeman  ;  it's  man's  work,  I  can 
tell  you,"  said  the  brawny  fellow  who 
slouched  along  at  the  other  side  of  the  drag. 

"  I've  rolled  logs  before  to-day,"  said  Paul, 
rather  contemptuously,  as  he  hurried  the  oxen 
down  the  road  Brent  and  Ruth  liad  taken. 

"  Yes,  but  there  a'n't  much  roll  to  these,  I 
can  tell  you.  They've  got  to  be  h'isted  up  on 
top  of  the  pile.  I  tell  you,  we've  got  a  harn- 
some  skid,  me  and  my  mate  have,  about 
twenty  logs,  and  these  will  just  top  it  off 
pooty.  It's  the  biggest  one  in  the  job,  I 
reckon." 

"  I  heard  the  Cap'n  say  he  didn't  like  those 
great  skids,  and  wouldn't  have  them,"  said 
Paul.  "  It  does  make  awful  hard  work,  get 
ting  the  logs  on  and  off." 

'  Yes,  there's  some  lift  in  it,  I  tell  yon,  and 
I  reckon  you'd  better  go  back  now,  and  send 
Jim  along.  I'm  dog  sure  you  can't  handle 
'em." 

"  You  see."  replied  Paul  briefly  ;  and  the 
other,  sinking  his  hands  deeper  into  the  waist- 


96 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


band  of  his  trowsers,  and  whistling  softly  as 
lie  went,  slouched  along  without  farther  re 
mark. 

Through  the  forest-path,  necked  here  and 
there  with  sunshine,  but  for  the  most  part 
lying  in  the  heavy  shadow  of  the  hemlocks, 
through  the  clearing  whence  one  might  look 
far  over  valley  and  stream  to  the  majestic 
mountains  upon  the  horizon,  wound  the  wood- 
path,  until,  near  the  brow  of  the  hill,  where 
the  road  descended  to  the  valley,  Paul  halted 
his  oxen  beside  a  pile  of  great  logs  laid  across 
a  platform  of  small  sticks,  technically  called 
skids,  and  designed  to  raise  the  logs  above 
the  deep  snow,  in  which  they  would  otherwise 
be  hidden.  Some  twenty  logs  already  were 
piled  upon  these  skids,  and  the  four  now  to 
be  added  would,  as  Paul's  companion  re 
marked,  just  make  up  two  dozen,  which  was 
"  a  pooty  lot  to  see  together." 

"  Now,  I  tell  you  what,  boy,"  continued  the 
woodsman,  taking  his  hands  out  of  his  waist 
band,  and  suddenly  awakening  to  full  activity 
and  energy,  "  we've  got  to  fly  round  and  get 
these  logs  h'isted  to  the  top  of  the  pile  before 
the  Cap'n  comes  along.  He  took  the  other 
road  by  the  brook,  and  will  go  to  the  lower 
skids  first,  and  if  we're  spry,  we'll  finish  and 
be  off  before  he  reaches  here.  If  we  don't, 
he'll  let  out  the  worst  kind  at  us  for  building 
so  big  a  skid." 

"  Let  him.  I  a'n't  afraid  of  what  he'll 
say,"  replied  Paul,  whose  temper  was  in  its 
worst  condition  this  morning. 

"  Yes,  but  he's  boss,  and  there  a'n't  any 
getting  away  from  it,  he  means  to  stay  boss," 
said  the  other,  whose  name  was  Bevis. 

Without  reply,  Paul  backed  his  oxen  a  step, 
so  that  the  sled  lay  immediately  beneath  the 
towering  pile  of  logs,  and  seizing  one  of  the 
iron  bars  or  handspikes,  lashed  upon  the  top 
of  the  load,  placed  the  point  of  it  beneath 
the  upper  stick,  and  signed  to  Bevis  to  imitate 
his  example.  Bevis  obeyed  as  silently,  and 
the  two  men,  with  prodigious  effort,  much 
skill,  and  a  judicious  use  of  the  principle  of 
leverage,  succeeded  presently  in  elevating  the 
great  log  inch  by  inch  to  the  top  of  the  pile, 
and  rolling  it  to  the  farther  side  of  the  plat 
form  made  by  the  tier  below. 

"Now  the  next,"  exclaimed  Paul,  leaping 
down  the  instant  this  object,  was  effected. 

"  Don't  you  want  to  catch  your  breath  ?" 
asked  Bevis,  panting  a  little. 

"  No.     He'll  be  along,"  said  Paul  doggedly  ; 


and  Bevis  resumed  the  handspike  he  had  just 
thrown  down.  The  second  log  was  larger 
than  the  first,  and  the  men  less  able  to  man 
age  it,  through  need  of  the  moment  of  rest 
they  had  omitted  to  take  ;  so  that,  although 
it  reached  the  top  of  the  pile,  it  was  by  efforts 
that  both  felt  were  too  severe  for  prudence. 

"  Tell  you  what,  boy,"  panted  Bevis,  sink 
ing  down  upon  the  top  of  the  pile.  "  This 
sort  of  thing  don't  pay.  You  and  me  a'n't 
stout  enough  to  handle  such  logs  as  these  on 
such  a  skid.  We'll  have  to  go  fetch  Jim." 

"  There's  Brent,"  replied  Paul  in  a  low 
voice,  and  both  men,  looking  from  their  eleva 
tion,  saw  the  tall  form  of  the  master  coming 
up  the  path,  with  Ruth  beside  him. 

"What  is  this?  Why,  men,  what  under 
the  sun  are  you  about  here?"  commenced 
he  sharply.  •'  Haven't  I  said,  time  and  again, 
that  I  won't  have  these  immense  wood-piles 
laid  up  in  place  of  decent  skids  ?  And,  Paul 
Freeman,  what  are  you  doing  here  ?  Your 
business  is  peeling,  and  I  won't  have  you 
mixing  up  in  this  way.  Bevis,  how  came  you 
to  lay  up  these  logs  in  this  fashion,  after  what 
I  have  said  ?" 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,  Cap'n,"  replied  Bevia 
slowly.  "  Jim  and  me,  we're  two-fisted  fellers, 
we  are,  and  we  just  liked  to  see  what  we 
could  do.'' 

"  Well,  I  should  just  like  to  see  what  you 
can  do  toward  minding  what  I  say,'  replied 
Brent  angrily.  "  You  two  get  those  logs  off 
again  in  a  hurry,  and  load  them  on  to  your 
drag.  Then  haul  them  a  dozen  feet  further 
on,  lay  some  new  skids,  and  legin  a  new  pile. 
Freeman,  since  you  like  to  meddle  with  an 
other  man's  work,  let  me  see  if  you  can  undo 
as  well  as  do." 

"  I  wish't  I  could  undo  one  job  that  I  was 
a  fool  for  doing,"  said  Paul  sullenly  ;  and  seiz 
ing  his  handspike  without  waiting  for  Bevis, 
he  lifted  the  end  of  the  log  nearest  to  him, 
and  sent  it  crashing  down  upon  the  load 
below,  with  such  force  that  it  rebounded  sev 
eral  feet,  and  the  smaller  end  springing  out 
ward,  struck  Brent  a  heavy  blow  upon  the 
breast,  felling  him  to  the  ground,  and  toppling 
over  beside  him,  but  fortunately  not  upon 
him. 

'  O  Paul !   You  wicked,  wicked   monster. 
You  have  killed  him  !     You  have  killed  my 
darling  friend  !"  cried  Ruth,  throwing  herself 
down  beside  Brent,  who,  to  the  astonishment 
of  all,  was  already  struggling  into  a  sitting 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


97 


posture.  The  girl,  throwing  her  arms  about 
him,  with  some  wild  idea  of  supporting  or 
raising  him,  would  have  poured  forth  a  tor 
rent  of  questions,  ejaculations,  sympathy  ;  but 
Brent,  with  one  hand  laid  heavily  upon  her 
shoulder,  silenced  her  with  the  one  word 
"  Hush!"  and  then  in  a  strange,  hoarse  voice, 
hardly  louder  than  a  whisper,  briefly  ordered  : 

"Get  that  log  upon  the  drag,  then  roll 
down  the  other,  and  do  as  I  told  you.  If  it 
isn't  done  in  half  an  hour,  you'll  both  leave 
Wahtahree  to-night." 

Without  a  word,  and  with  white,  awe- 
BtricRen  faces,  the  men  obeyed ;  and  Brent, 
without  moving  from  his  position,  relaxing 
his  hold  of  Ruth's  shoulder,  or  again  essaying 
to  speak,  watched  their  movements  with  g'.it- 
tering  eyes,  set  in  a  face  paler  than  death, 
until  in  less  than  the  prescribed  time  his 
orders  were  obeyed  to  the  full.  Then,  while 
Bevis  turned  the  oxen  into  the  path,  Paul 
Freeman  approached  his  wounded  employer. 

"  Mr.  Brent,"  said  he,  "  I  am  very  sorry  you 
are  liurt.  I  never  meant  to  do  it.  Can't  we 
carry  you  home  on  the  drag,  or  won't  you  let 
me  help  you?'* 

"  Go  back  to  your  work,  and  remember  that 
you  are  a  peeler,  and  not  a  teamster."  whis 
pered  Brent,  waving  his  hand  so  imperiously 
toward  the  road,  that  Freeman  obeyed  with 
out  another  word. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 
FIGHTING  FOR  LIFE. 

"AND  now,  Comfort,"  whispered  Brent,  as 
the  retreating  footsteps  of  the  men  died  away, 
"  now  we  will  see  what  is  left  for  me  in  this 
world.  I  think  that  was  my  death-blow,  but 
I  was  resolved  those  men  should  see  that  1 
was  master  while  I  lived.  Can  you  stand  firm, 
poor  child,  and  let  me  raise  myself  by  you?" 

"  Let  me  raise  you  !  Oh !  dear,  dear  master, 
let  me  help  you  in  any  way,"  cried  the  girl,  un 
heeded  tears  streaming  down  her  face,  and  her 
whole  puny  strength  exerted  in  the  effort  to 
raise  the  stalwart  figure  of  the  injured  man  in 
her  arms. 

"  Stop,  stop,  child  !"  gasped  Brent  in  agony. 
"  You  will  injure  yourself,  and  you  torture  me. 
Wait  a  moment  and  I  can  raise  myself." 

"  Cling  round  my  waist  then — I  am  very 
strong,  you  have  no  idea  how  strong — and  pull 
yourself  up  that  way,''  said  Ruth,  bracing  her 
self  like  a  young  birch  emulating  an  oak. 

Brent  smiled  faintly,  and  adopting  the  plan 
7 


she  suggested,  succeeded  in  raising  himself  to 
his  feet,  stood  for  a  moment,  his  arm  about  her 
shoulders,  his  form  swaying  backward  and 
forward  in  a  vain  attempt  to  gain  its  equilib 
rium,  his  face  growing  more  ghastly  in  its 
pallor,  his  eyes  rolling  wildly  upon  an  earth 
and  heaven  that  seemed  to  have  broke  their 
bonds  and  joined  in  chaos,  and  then  he  fell 
prone  to  earth,  the  blood  gushing  in  a  torrent 
from  his  lips. 

Ruth,  too  utterly  terror-stricken  for  any 
action,  sank  down  beside  him,  and  presently 
summoned  courage  to  raise  his  head  and  lay 
it  upon  her  lap,  all  ghastly  and  gory  as  it  was, 
and  so  they  remained  for  moments  that  grew 
to  hours — the  man  stricken  down  in  the  splen 
dor  of  his  strength,  more  helpless  and  more 
defenceless  than  the  feeble  child  who  watched 
him,  and  who  thought  him  dead  or  dying. 

But  at  last  Brent  opened  his  eyes. 

"  Darling  !  No,  you  are  not  mine  now. — 
What  is  it  ?  What  did  they  tell  me?-  Bea 
trice Oh  !  it  is  you,  little  Comfort.  Where 

are  we  ? — So  cold.  Why  is  it  so  cold  ?" 

"  Oh !  you  are  not  dead,  dear,  dear  Mr. 
Brent !  I  am  so  glad  !" 

And  Ruth's  tears  fell  hot  and  fast,  dripping 
upon  the  Avhite  face  in  her  lap. 

"  No,  I  am  not  dead,"  repeated  Brent  dream 
ily.  "  Why  do  you  cry,  Comfort  ?  Because  I 
am  not  dead  ? — I  remember  those  logs.  When 
did  I  see  them  before?  Ah!  now  I  Lave  it ! 
Yes,  yes  !  Those  men  and  the  great  log,  and 
the  whirl  of  the  woods  and  sky  !  Yes,  I  have 
it  now.  And  you  have  been  sitting  here  to 
hold  me,  Comfort,  and  never  thought  of  de 
serting  me  for  a  moment?  Well,  it  is  a  Com 
fort  truly  named.  Now  let  us  try  again. 
Stand  up  and  let  me  cling  to  you.  So — that  is 
it,  that  is  brave !  Now  walk  on,  slowly,  softly — 
do  not  hurry.  Can  you  pick  up  one  of  those 
sticks  and  give  me  ?  Here,  I  can  cling  to  this 
tree  while  you  stoop.  Now  then,  let  us  get 
on!" 

"  O  Mr.  Brent !  let  me  run  and  call  some 
of  the  men  to  help  you  home.  You  will  cer 
tainly  fall — you  will  kill  yourself  doing  so 
much.  They  can  carry  you  in  their  arms!" 
exclaimed  Ruth,  watching  the  faltering  steps 
and  uncertain,  swaying  motions  of  her  charge 
with  tremulous  anxiety. 

"  No,  C'omfort,  no,"  muttered  Brent,  leaning 
yet  more  heavily  upon  his  stick,and  conquering 
the  growing  faintness  that  seized  him  by  an 
effort  of  his  resistless  will.  "  I  will  not  have 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


the  men — they  shall  not  see  me  in  this  fash 
ion — I  must  be  master  of  myself,  or  I  cannot 
be  their  master.  No  ;  we  are  getting  on  toward 
home,  and  you  and  Zilpah  will  take  care  of 
me.  We  won't  have  the  men." 

So  muttering  at  intervals,  leaning  now  upon 
his  staff,  now  upon  the  shoulders  of  the  girl 
who  watched  his  every  step  with  such  ago 
nized  solicitude,  Brent  struggled  on,  with  many 
a  pause,  many  an  alternation  of  deadly  faint- 
ness  and  heroic  effort,  many  a  whispered  word 
of  encouragement  and  apology  to  his  Comfort, 
who  replied  not  a  syllable,  her  whole  soul  be 
ing  absorbed  in  sustaining  those  faltering 
steps  which  promised  each  one  to  be  the  last 
possible  before  exhausted  nature  failed. 

But  at  last  came  the  clearing,  the  open  sky, 
the  shanty,  with  Zilpah  at  the  door,  feeding 
the  poultry  she  had  with  infinite  pains  estab 
lished  in  her  new  home.  Zilpah,  seeing 
at  a  glance  the  position  of  affairs,  rushed  for 
ward,  eager,  clamorous,  inquisitive,  and  yet 
most  efficient  and  eager  to  be  of  use. 

Ruth  told  the  story  in  brief,  tremulous 
words,  and  between  them  they  led  Brent  to 
his  own  room  and  laid  him  upon  the  bed. 
Then,  while  Ruth  ran  for  water,  cloths,  res 
toratives  of  various  sorts,  the  old  woman  ten 
derly  undressed  him  and  examined  the  fright 
ful  bruise  upon  his  chest. 

"Do  you  think  there's  any  ribs  broke, 
dear?"  asked  she  tenderly.  "  Or  is  it  an  in'ard 
hurt  ?  I  wish  't  I  had  some  sage  to  make  you 
a  tea,  though  there's  nothing  like  sparmecity- 
candles  scraped  in  merlasses  lor  an  in'ard 
bruise.  Yes  ;  you  can  come  right  in,  Ruthie. 
There  now,  Marsie  sonny,  let  me  wash  your 
face — same  as  I  used  to.  Lor,  it  seems  as  if 
we'd  gone  clear  back  to  the  day  you  dim' 
the  big  nut-tree  to  shake  it  for  Beatrice  Wan- 
Bted,  and  tumbled  down,  and  was  took  up  for 
dead.  That  was  the  year  afore  your  ma  died, 
and  she  was  so  scared  at  seeing  you  all  white 
and  bloody — just  as  you  are  now  —  that  it 
gave  her  a  turn,  and  I  don't  think  she  ever 
got  over  it.  Yes  ;  it  seems  as  if  you  was  no 
more  than  that  same  boy  over  again.  There, 
you  look  a  little  better ;  and  now  you  drink 
some  of  this  hot  whiskey  and  sugar  to  keep 
up  your  strength  ;  and,  Ruth,  you  come  here 
to  the  door."  . 

Ruth  obeyed  in  the  same  dazed  way  in 
which  she  had  moved  and  spoken  ever  since 
the  terrible  shock  of  seeing  Brent  fall  lifeless 
at  her  feet. 


"  Wake  up,  child !  Wake  up,  and  think 
what  you're  about !"  said  Zilpah,  shaking  her 
by  one  shoulder  somewhat  impatiently.  "  It 
a'n't  going  to  help  him  any  to  act  that  way. 
There's  got  to  be  a  doctor  sent  for  right 
away  ;  it's  too  big  a  hurt  for  me  to  handle  all 
alone — though  I  know  as  much  as  any  wo 
man  you'll  fetch  about  roots  and  yarbs  and 
sech  stuff,  but  of  course  that  a'n't  like  a 
doctor.  Now,  Ruth,  you  know  where  the 
men  be,  and  you  slip  out  quiet,  and  find  Rich 
ard,  or  maybe  Paul  Freeman  would  do,  and 
tell  'em  to  take  the  Cap'n's  horse  and  ride 
for  the  doctor,  lickety-split.  Maybe  five  min 
utes  will  be  the  saving  of  his  life,  for  I  don't 
know  but  he's  bleeding  in'ardly,  and  I  don't 
know  how  to  stop  that.  Run.  now  !" 

But  there  was  no  need  to  bid  her  hasten. 
So  soon  as  she  comprehended  the  service  re 
quired  of  her,  the  wind  could  hardly  have 
outstripped  her  speed  to  perform  it ;  and  al 
most  before  Zilpah  knew  that  she  was  gone 
she  was  out  of  sight,  and  fifteen  minutes 
later  stood  breathless,  pallid,  and  excited  in 
the  path  of  the  men,  who  were  returning 
homeward  for  their  dinner. 

"  Richard,  come  here  quick,  I  want  to  speak 
to  you,"  called  she  impatiently  ;  and  as  Paul 
also  darted  forward,  she  waved  him  impe 
riously  back. 

"  No,  Paul  Freeman,  I  don't  want  you,"  said 
she,  turning  her  back  upon  him,  while  she 
whispered  to  Richard  : 

"  Mr.  Brent  is  dreadfully  hurt — dreadfully  ; 
and  Zilpah  says  we  must  have  the  doctor  just 
as  soon  as  we  can  get  him.  She  says  take 
Kitty  and  ride  down  to  the  Ford,  and  tell 
him  to  hurry  all  he  can.  Oh  !  do  hurry,  Rich 
ard,  do !" 

"  How'd  he  get  hurt  ?"  asked  Richard, 
already  hastening  toward  the  stable,  while  the 
other  men,  except  Paul,  turned  toward  the 
shanty. 

"  A  log  rolled  down  and  struck  him  ;  but 
oh !  do,  do  hurry  I"  said  Ruth,  following  the 
man  for  a  short  distance,  and  then  standing, 
with  clasped  hands  and  white  face,  breath 
lessly  watching  his  movements. 

As  she  thus  stood,  a  slow  and  reluctant  step 
approached  her  from  behind. 

"  Ruthie !" 

"  What  do  you  want,  Paul  Freeman  ?" 

"  Why  do  you  speak  so  short,  Ruthie?  and 
why  won't  you  look  at  me  ?  You  don't  think 
I  meant  to  roll  the  log  down  on  him,  do  you  ?" 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


99 


"  I  hope  you  didn't,  for  your  own  sake  a 
much  as  any  thing,  Paul,"  said  the  girl,  neve 
moving  her  eyes  from  Richard,  who  wa 
rapidly  saddling  the  sure-footed  mountain-naj 
Brent  had  selected  for  his  own  use  over  road 
where  a  horse  accustomed  to  travelling  a  set 
tied  country  would  probably  have  broken  hi 
own  legs  and  his  master's  neck  in  the  firs 
day. 

'•  Is  he  much  hurt  ?"  asked  Paul  in  a  lo\ 
voice. 

"  Killed,  maybe." 

"  O  Ruthie !  don't  say  that." 


Arrival  of  the  doctor. 

"  Well,  it's  true.     And  what  killed  him  ?" 
"  Not  I,   Ruth.     I  solemnly  swear  to  you 

that  when  I  gave  that  h'ist  to  the  log  I  had 

no  more  idea  of  hitting  him  than  you  with  it. 

Don't  you  believe  me  ?" 

"Yes;  if  you   say   so,   I   believe   it,   Paul. 

But  if  Mr.  Brent  dies,  I  never  can  bear  to  look 

at  you,  or  speak  to  you,  or  hear  your  voice  or 

your  name  again." 

"  Even  when  I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  him  ?" 
"  Yes  ;  even  then,  because  you  did  hurt  him 

if  you  didn't  mean  it."  . 

"  Then  you  care  a  great   deal   about  Mr. 

Brent,  Ruthie  V 


"A  great  deal!  I  shouldn't  think  you'd 
ask  such  a  question,  Paul." 

"  More  than  you  do  about  me,  Ruthie  ?" 

"  Why,  of  cr.iirse  I  do.  More  than  I  do 
about  any  body,"  said  Ruth  impatiently. 

And  Paul  turned  away  without  another 
word. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 
DOCTORS    DISAGREE. 

"  WELL,  doctor,  what  do  you  think  about 
him?"  asked  Zil pah  impatiently,  as  the  doc 
tor  finished  the  ample  dinner  with  which  the 
housekeeper  had  hospitably  provided  him 
before  she  asked  any  questions. 

"  Well,  ma'am,  if  you  want  my  candid,  out 
right,  and  downright  opinion  about  Mr. 
Brent " 

"  Yes,  what  is  it  1" 

"  Well,  ma'am,  it  is  that  he  is  a  dead  man  !" 
And  the  doctor,  adjusting  his  spectacles  to  his 
nose,  tilted  his  chair  against  the  wall,  thrust 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  steadily  regard 
ed  the  little  junta  composed  of  Zilpah,  Rich 
ard,  Paul  Freeman,  and  Ruth,  who  breathless 
ly  waited  for  his  words. 

As  they  met  her  ear,  Ruth  turned,  and  hid- 
ng  her  face  upon  Zilpah's  bosom,  burst  into 
hysterical  sobs ;  and  the  old  woman,  with 
tears  streaming  down  her  withered  cheeks, 
bund  no  word  of  comfort  to  whisper  to  her. 
Paul  Freeman  turned  miserably  toward  the 
pen  door,  yet  lingered,  hoping  for  some  alle-- 
viating  word  to  this  terrible  sentence  ;  and 
lichard  pursed  up  his  lips  as  if  to  whistle  ; 
hen  glanced  uneasily  at  the  women,  and 
doubtfully  at  the  doctor,  while  he  slowly 
said  : 

"  Sho !  it  a'n't  so  bad  as  all  that,  I  guess." 
"  It  couldn't  well  be  worse,"  replied  the 
loctor  dogmatically.  "The  man  is  injur"d 
•ery  bad  inwardly,  and  there's  no  way  of  gut- 
ing  at  an  inward  wound  to  see  what  it  is. 
here's  a  couple  of  ribs  broken,  too,  but 
hey'll  heal  of  themselves  in  a  week  or  so.  It 
,vas  walking  with  them  ribs  playing  against 
he  vital  organs  inside  of  him  that  did  the 
nischief,  I  expect.  They  sort  of  tore  him  all 
o  pieces,  and  /  don't  see  how  lie's  going  to 
>-et  mended." 

"You  can't  do  anything  more  about  it?" 

sked   Richard,  still   whistling  softly  as  he 

yed  the  doctor  with  increasing  disfavor. 

"  I  don't  see  as  I  can,  young  man,  really.     I 

ave  no  objection  to  coming  into  the  woods 


100 


THE   SHADOW   OF   MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


agnin — say  day  after  to-morrow  ;  but  its  pret 
ty  hard  on  a  horse,  and  I  really  don't  see  what 
I  can  do." 

"  Well,  now,  doctor,  I'm  an  ignorant  sort 
of  man  alongside  of  you  ;  but  it's  my  opinion 
that  the  boss  is  going  to  get  over  it,  and  I'll 
tell  you  what  he'd  ought  to  take  to  help  him 
over." 

"  Well,  sir,  wliat  1"  asked  the  doctor,  much 
in  the  tone  ordinarily  assumed  by  the  master 
of  the  ring  toward  the  clown  at  a  circus. 

"  French  brandy  and  loaf-sugar,"  replied 
Richard  undauntedly,  and  meeting  the  doc 
tor's  sneering  laugh  with  good-humored  indif 
ference. 

"  Well ,  that's  a  new  cure  for  broken  bones," 
said  the  man  of  science  at  last. 

"  It  a'n't  broken  bones — you  said  they'd 
heal  of  themselves  in  a  week  or  two,"  replied 
Richard  sententiously. 

"  Well,  what's  your  brandy  and  loaf-sugar 
going  to  do  anyhow  ?'' 

"  Why,  the  brandy  keeps  the  blood  a-circu- 
lating  lively,  so  that  the  bruised  parts  won't 
die  before  they  heal,  and  the  loaf-sugar  makes 
'em  heal." 

"  Sugar's  dreadful  healing,  every  body 
knows,"  said  Zilpah  corroboratively. 

"Now,  doctor,  you  think  I'm  a  fool,  but 
you  just  hear  what  I've  seen  in  my  day,"  pur 
sued  Richard,  rising  and  marching  up  and 
down  the  room,  pausing  now  and  then  to 
confront  the  doctor  with  some  sentence  more 
emphatic  than  the  rest,  and  speaking  with 
the  eloquence  of  conviction,  and  an  earnest 
purpose. 

"  Three  years  ago,  I  was  on  a  job  with  a 
man  named  Sparks.  It  was  down  in  the  State 
of  Maine,  where  the  lumbering  is  carried  on  a 
little  different  from  what  it  is  here,  but  is  full 
as  dangerous.  This  man  was  a  great  fellow 
for  taking  hold  of  every  thing  himself,  though 
he  was  the  boss  ;  and  in  the  spring,  when  it 
came  to  rafting  the  lumber  down  the  river,  he 
was  here,  there,  and  everywhere.  The  end 
of  it  was  that,  one  day,  there  was  a  yam  just 
above  the  rapids,  and  not  a  fellow  on  hand 
man  enough  to  go  out  on  the  raft  and  break 
the  lock,  till  Sparks  himself  seized  up  an  axe, 
tossed  off  his  jacket  and  boots,  and  just  wait 
ing  to  have  a  rope  tied  round  his  waist,  sprung 
out  on  the  logs  that  were  bobbing  up  and 
down,  piling  one  over  another,  and  grinding 
away  like  as  they  were  alive,  and  in  a  hurry 
to  chaw  him  all  up.  Out  he  went,  found  the 


lock,  hit  right  and  left,  knocked  out  the  key-log, 
and  then  sprung  for  it  like  a  man  that  feels 
the  devil  close  on  his  heels,  and  the  church- 
door  open  all  ready  for  him.  We  fellers  hur 
rahed  and  cheered  him  on,  and  pulled  away 
at  the  line,  keeping  it  just  taut  and  not  pull 
ing  a  bit ;  and  well  was  it  for  him  that  we 
did,  for,  just  at  the  church-door  as  it  were,  the 
devil  caught  up  with  him,  and  over  he  went, 
down  among  the  dead  men,  we  all  thought 
and  said  ;  but  while  there's  life  there's  hope, 
and  we  hauled  away  at  the  line,  and  after  five 
minutes  or  so,  up  he  came,  looking  more  like 
the  pieces  of  a  man  than  a  whole  one,  and 
hanging  to  the  end  of  the  rope  with  no  more 
force  about  him  than  a  dish-cloth. 

"  We  got  him  ashore,  and  carried  him  up  to 
the  shanty,  which  wasn't  far  from  the  river. 
The  only  one  to  take  care  of  him  was  an  old 
Indian  squaw  we  had  picked  up  to  help  cook 
and  wash  for  us  while  we  stayed  in  that  camp, 
and  with  her  we  left  him,  while  we  went  back 
to  the  logs ;  for  the  man  we  worked  for 
wouldn't  have  thought  it  much  of  an  excuse 
if  we'd  let  all  his  lumber  slide  just  because 
one  man  got  killed. 

"  When  we  got  home  at  night,  the  first 
thing  we  said  was  : 

"  '  Is  the  boss  gone  under  ?'  and  the  old 
squaw  up  and  made  answer : 

"  '  He  no  go  under,  never ;  me  makey  well.' 
And  sure  enough,  there  was  Sparks  lying  on. 
his  bed,  as  happy  as  a  lord,  and  alongside  of 
him  a  cupful  of  white  sugar  just  wet  with 
brandy,  while  he  had  a  bottle  of  it  for  medi 
cine,  though  it  hadn't  never  been  opened  till 
that  day,  and  the  white  sugar  he'd  fetched  up 
when  the  man  that  owned  the  job  came  to 
spend  a  day  or  two  on  it. 

"  Well,  where  that  old  woman  got  her  idee,  or 
how  she  knew  the  brandy  and  sugar  was  in 
the  shanty,  is  more  than  I  can  tell ;  but  she 
seemed  so  sartain  sure  she  was  right  that  we 
just  let  her  go  ahead,  and  when  the  brandy 
was  gone,  one  of  us  fellers  went  all  the  way 
to  Bangor  to  get  some  more. 

"  Well,  sir,  that  was  all  there  was  to  it. 
The  cup  of  brandy  and  sugar  didn't  never  get 
empty  ;  and  about  once  in  five  minutes,  either 
Sparks  for  himself,  or  some  body  else  for  him, 
would  tuck  a  spoonful  into  his  mouth.  It 
kept  him  about  half  drunk.  I  do  suppose,  and 
he  slept  right  straight  along,  day  and  night, 
most  all  the  time.  When  he  got  a  little  bet 
ter,  we  used  to  carry  him  out  on  a  sort  of  bed 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


101 


we  matlo  for  him,  and  set  him  in  the  sun  a 
little  while  ;  and  when  it  came  midsummer, 
we  laid  him  where  he'd  get  the  good  smell  of 
the  spruces  and  fir-balsams.  Then  we  fed 
him  on  thin  slices  of  raw  pork,  sprinkled  with 
red  pepper  ;  and  the  amount  of  it  was  that  by 
early  fall  he  was  a  well  man,  and  it  was 
brandy  and  sugar  that  cured  him." 

"  Brandy  and  sugar,  and  the  smell  of  pine- 
woods,  and  raw  pork  and  red  pepper !"  repeat 
ed  the  doctor  contemptuously.  "  Well,  young 
man,  if  you  think  you're  competent  to  manage 
this  case  on  those  principles,  I  am  quite  ready 
to  leave  it  in  your  hands,  for  I  confess  that  I 
don't  understand  that  style  of  treatment." 

"  Nor  no  other  that'll  haul  Brent  through, 
do  you  V  asked  Richard,  much  in  the  same 
tone. 

"  No,  I  can't  say  I  do.  A  man  that's  injured 
as  he's  injured  had  ought  to  die,  and  I  don't 
doubt  he  will  die,"  said  the  doctor,  allowing 
his  chair  to  resume  its  quadrupedal  position, 
while  rising  to  his  own  feet,  he  buttoned  his 
coat,  finished  packing  and  strapping  his  sad 
dle-bags,  and  showed  symptoms  of  a  dignified 
departure. 

"  All  right,  doctor.  You  say  he'll  die,  and 
you  can't  help  it,  and  I  say  he  shan't  die,  not 
if  we  can  hender  it ;  shall  he,  Ma'am  Zilpah  ?" 

"  No,  Richard,  he  shan't ;  and  I  don't  doubt 
but  what  we  can  hender  it,  if  all  you  say  is 
true,"  replied  the  old  woman,  jerking  her 
chin  into  the  air,  with  a  defiant  glance  at  the 
doctor. 

"  Very  well,  then,  I  leave  the  case  in  your 
hands — only  mind  and  don't  you  blame  me 
when  the  man  dies,"  said  that  worthy  practi 
tioner,  putting  on  his  hat  and  approaching 
the  door. 

"  No,  we  won't  ;  but  maybe  you'll  tell  me 
if  you've  got  any  first-rate  French  brandy 
among  your  physic  down  to  the  Ford  ?"  said 
Richard,  accompanyng  him. 

'•  Yes,  I've  got  some  worth  eighteen  dollars 
a  gallon,  if  that  is  good  enough,"  said  the  doc 
tor  with  a  grim  smile. 

"  Who  cares  for  the  price  if  the  stuff  is 
first-rate  !  I'll  buy  a  bottle  anyhow  out  of  my 
own  pocket." 

"  And  I'll  go  down  with  the  doctor  and 
bring  it  back,"  said  Paul  eagerly,  looking 
toward  Ruth  for  approval ;  but  she  was  whis 
pering  to  Zilpah : 

"  Let  us  go  back  to  Mr.  Brent  now." 

"  You  go,  and  I'll  come  as  soon  as  I  put 


these  dishes  together,"  said  the  old  woman 
kindly ;  and  the  girl,  waiting  for  no  further 
permission,  flew  back  to  the  post  beside  Mar- 
ston's  pillow,  which  she  had  unwillingly 
quitted  half  an  hour  before,  at  Zilpah's  call. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIH. 
A  GHOST. 

"  MR.  MOXCKTON  !  Is  it  possible  ?  This  is 
indeed  a  delightful  surprise." 

"  I  may  eoho  the  delight,  but  not  the  sur 
prise,  for  that  would  have  been  in  finding 
Mrs.  Barstow  less  charming  than  I  left  Mrs. 
Charlton,"  said  the  traveller,  touching  the 
finger-tips  extended  to  him,  and  bowing  pro 
foundly. 

"  Still  a  courtier,"  said  the  lady,  lightly 
laughing  as  she  glanced  toward?  a  chair  and 
resumed  her  own. 

"  No  satire,  pray.  Remember  that  I  am  but 
just  off  a  journey,  and  more  than  usually 
powerless  in  your  hands." 

"  You  have  but  just  arrived  in  town  ?" 

"  Or  in  the  country  either.  I  landed  upon 
republican  soil  just  four  days  ago." 

"  After  an  absence  of —  how  long  ?" 

"  Four  years." 

"  And  you  have  explored  during  that  time 
how  large  a  proportion  of  the  habitable 
globe  ?" 

"  Ah  !  one's  ideas  of  habitable  become  so 
vague  in  the  course  of  extended  travel  that  I 
cannot  answer  your  question,  especially  in 
comparing  this  apartment  with  the  hut  of  my 
friend  Eric  Jakell,  the  Icelander,  where  I 
spent  a  week  last  summer." 

And  Mr.  Monckton  suffered  his  eyes  to  wan 
der  admiringly  through  the  elegant  drawing- 
room,  its  charms,  like  those  of  its  mistress, 
heightened  by  the  softened  and  tinted  light 
alone  suffered  to  enter  the  heavily  shaded 
windows. 

Mrs.  Barstow  noted  the  glance,  and  felt  an 
added  kindliness  toward  so  delicate  an  appre- 
ciator  of  the  taste  displayed  in  her  surround 
ings. 

"  It  is  a  pity  you  should  waste  four  years 
upon  the  Eric  Jakells  of  the  world  when  so 
many  of  your  more  civilized  friends  are  wish 
ing  for  your  society,"  said  she,  with  a  smile  so 
becoming  that  Mr.  Monckton.  doing  a  little 
sum  in  mental  arithmetic,  decided  that  eight 
and  thirty  must  be  the  grand  climacteric  of 
woman's  beauty. 


103 


THE  SHADOW   OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


"  I  did  not  spend  all  my  time  in  Iceland," 
eaid  he  slowly.  "  I  travelled  in  various  quar 
ters  of  the  globe  beside,  and  met  many  persons 
whom  I  knew." 

"  The  Chappellefords,  for  instance,"  said 
Mrs.  Barstow~with  a  slightly  malicious  smile. 
"  Beatrice  told  me  that  they  met  you  in  Lon 
don,  quite  by  accident." 

"  Yes,"  said  Monckton  gravely.  "  But  a 
very  happy  accident  for  me,  as  I  enjoyed  their 
society  exceedingly  during  the  few  days  I  was 
able  to  remain  with  them." 

The  reserve  of  his  manner  checked  the  jest 
Mrs.  Barstow  wished  to  utter  upon  the  subject 
of  Beatrice,,  and  she  asked  instead  : 

"  Did  you  share  Mr.  Ohappelleford's  tri 
umphs  among  the  English  savansf" 

"  Not  at  all.  The  Oriental  Club  were  hos 
pitable  enough  to  give  me  a  chair,  and  I  be 
long  to  the  Travellers',  but  otherwise  I  saw 
nothing  of  society.  I  was  only  passing 
through  London  on  my  way  to  Scotland.  But 
Mrs.  Chappelleford's  success  was  even  greater 
than  her  husband's." 

"  Indeed — in  what  direction  ?"  asked  Mrs. 
Barstow  coldly. 

"  As  a  belle  esprit,  almost  a  bas  bleu.  In 
fact,  had  she  been  less  beautiful,  less  elegant, 
older,  and  more  stereotyped,  she  might  have 
been  consigned  to  the  ranks  of  learned  wom 
en,  and  lost  to  the  general  society  which 
eagerly  claimed  her." 

"  Indeed  !  I  did  not  know  she  had  become 
such  a  paragon.  I  shall  be  quite  afraid  of  her 
•when  I  find  time  to  appreciate  her." 

'•  Pray,  do  not  delay  that  period,  for  I  assure 
you  that  you  are  losing  a  great  deal,"  said  Mr. 
Monckton,  smiling  ever  so  little.  "  You  have 
not  seen  much  of  your  friends  then  since 
their  return  ?"  added  he  directly. 

"  No  ;  they  only  came  in  the  last  steamer, 
the  one  just  before  yours,  by  the  way,  and  I 
have  hardly  found  time  for  a  call,  and  to  see 
them  once  at  dinner.  They  will  be  here  to 
morrow  evening,  however,  at  a  little  gather 
ing  in  their  honor,  and  I  trust  we  shall  have 
the  pleasure  of  welcoming  Mr.  Monckton  also. 
Mr.  Barstow  will  be  most  happy  to  call  upon 
you  in  the  morning,  although,  you  know,  soci 
ety  is  not  his  favorite  occupation." 

"  Thanks — I  shall  be  most  happy.  Mr.  Bar 
stow  is  quite  well,  I  hope." 

"  Oh  !  quite,  and  just  as  devoted  to  business 
as  ever.  I  hardly  see  him  except  at  dinner, 
for  he  is  not  fond  of  going  out,  and  I  am  un 


able  to  avoid  so  many  engagements  that  they 
quite  absorb  me." 

She  raised  her  eyes  with  such  an  air  of  pa 
thetic  protest  against  her  fate,  that  Monckton 
would  certainly  have  laughed  had  he  not  been 
absorbed  at  the  moment  in  contriving  an 
opening  for  the  one  thing  he  had  entered  that 
house  lo  say. 

"  I  dare  say  you  are  thinking  that  Mrs. 
Monckton  shall  be  more  domestic,"  continued 
the  lady  with  an  arch  smile  ;  and  the  traveller 
replied  in  the  same  tone  : 

"  '  Bachelors'  wives,'  you  know,  are  perfect, 
and  I  am  afraid  I  never  shall  have  any  other. 
But  you  were  asking  of  my  travels,  Mrs. 
Barstow.  Among  other  places,  I  visited  Persia 
again." 

"  Indeed !"  and  Mrs.  Barstow  turned  pale 
beneath  the  nuance  of  rouge  upon  her  cheek  ; 
but  recovering  herself  by  a  rapid  and  violent 
effort,  she  boldly  picked  up  the  gage  which  she 
imagined  thrown  down  to  her. 

"  Then  I  dare  say  you  heard  further  news 
of  an  old  friend,  Major  Strangford,"  said  she 
carelessly. 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Barstow,  very  singular,  very 
startling  news,"  said  Monckton  earnestly. 

"  What  is  it,  pray  ?  He  was  always  orig 
inal." 

"This  time  extremely  so,  for  after  dispatch 
ing  a  letter  and  parcel  which  I  transmitted  to 
you  four  years  ago,  he  recovered  from  the  fe 
ver  supposed  to  be  fatal,  and  in  the  course  ot 
several  months  resumed  the  use  both  of  his 
body  and  mind,  which,  as  I  understand,  had 
been  nearly  equally  affected  by  his  illness." 

"  He  recovered !"  gasped  Mrs.  Barstow,  too 
deeply  agitated  now  for  concealment. 

"  Yes,  and  was  about  to  proceed  upon  his 
journey  homeward,  when,  in  looking  over  a 
file  of  American  newspapers  at  some  consul 
ate  upon  the  route,  he  met  with  the  announce 
ment  of  your  marriage.  It  was  a  great  shock 
to  him,  as  he  had  formed  his  own  plans  with 
regard  to  your  future.  You  will  excuse  this 
freedom,  I  trust,  as  both  you  and  Major  Strang 
ford  have  honored  me  with  your  confidence 
in  times  past." 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  go  on,  please  !" 

"  The  Major  was,  as  I  have  said,  much 
shocked,  and  also  very  angry,  and  in  the  first 
heat  of  his  emotions,  he  did  a  very  foolish 
thing." 

"  Shot  himself?" 

"  Oh  !  no,  much  worse  than  that :  married 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


103 


himself  to  a  woman  for  whom  he  never  pre 
tended  to  care,  and  whose  devotion  to  him 
only  serves  to  render  his  indifference  more  ap 
parent.  She  was  an  English  widow,  very  rich 
and  very  vulgar ;  he  met  her  somewhere  in 
Italy — Naples,  I  think — and  they  were  married 
in  ten  days  from  their  first  introduction." 

"  I  thought  you  said  you  met  him  in  Per 
sia." 

"  No  ;  I  only  mentioned  Persia  by  way  of  in 
troducing  this  subject.  I  met  them  in  Paris." 

Mr.  Monckton  paused,  and  Mrs.  Barstow 
sat  for  a  moment,  her  face  covered  with  her 
hand,  then  raised  it,  pale  and  haughty,  to 
say: 

"  Your  account  of  my  former  friend  is  in 
teresting,  Mr.  Monckton,  for  one  never  ceases 
to  feel  an  interest  in  the  fate  of  one's  intimate 
associates,  but  as  I  shall  probably  never  meet 
or  hear  again  of  either  Major  or  Mrs.  Strang- 
ford,  the  news  is  hardly  as  important  as  you 
seem  to  think." 

"  Pardon,  madam,"  said  the  traveller  coldly. 
"  It  is  precisely  because  it  is  important  that  I 
have  intruded  it  upon  you.  Major  and  Mrs. 
Strangford  were  passengers  with  me  in  the 
Phoenix,  and  I  know  that  it  is  his  intention  to 
call  upon  you  to-morrow — which  is  New-Year's 
day,  you  will  remember — in  hopes  of  giving 
you  as  painful  a  shock  as  he  experienced  in 
hearing  of  your  marriage.  I  know  this,  for 
he  told  me." 

"  And  you  came  here  to  warn  me !  That  is 
real  kindness,  real  friendship,  Mr.  Monckton," 
and  Mrs.  Barstow,  rising,  offered  her  white  and 
jewelled  hand  to  her  guest  with  more  sincer 
ity  of  feeling  than  she  had  experienced  before 
in  many  years. 

"  You  repay  my  slight  service  a  hundred 
fold,"  said  Monckton,  returning  the  cordial 
pressure  of  the  hand  he  held. .  "  But  you  will 
remember  you  did  me  a  service  long  ago,  and 
although  I  never  have  thanked  you,  I  felt  none 
the  less  grateful." 

"  That  was  simple  justice,"  said  Mrs.  Bar- 
stow  with  a  very  becoming  air  of  proud  recti 
tude,  and  a  convenient  oblivion  of  the  gar 
nets.  "  And  although  the  confession  caused 
a  breach  between  Mrs.  Chappelleford  and  my 
self,  not  yet  healed,  I  have  never  regretted 
making  it." 

"  Thank  you.  Ana  you  will  be  ready  for 
Major  Strangford?" 

"  I  shall  be  ready,  and  will  even  ask  him  to 
waive  all  ceremony  and  bring  his  wife  to  me 


to  morrow  evening,"  said  Mrs.  Barstow  with  a 
smile  of  honeyed  malice. 

"  Ah !  I  see  that  forewarned  is  forearmed 
in  this  case,  and  I  need  interfere  no  further," 
said  Mr.  Monckton,  taking  his  leave. 

Going  down  the  stairs,  he  proposed  to  him 
self  this  little  problem,  and  left  it  unsolved : 

"  Which  is  meaner,  for  a  man  to  stand  by 
and  see  a  woman  ill  used,  or  to  turn  traitor  to 
another  man  ?" 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 
A     COUNCIL     OF    WAR. 

"  MADAME  begs  that  you  will  come  up  to 
her  dressing-room,  if  it  is  not  too  much  fa 
tigue,"  said  the  soubrette  ;  and  Mrs.  Chappelle 
ford,  with  a  silent  inclination  of  the  head, 
followed  to  the  suite  of  apartments  that  had 
once  been  her  own,  and  were  now  Mrs.  Bar- 
stow's.  That  lady,  standing  engrande  toilette 
between  two  mirrors,watched  a  little  anxiously 
the  first  expression  of  her  guest's  face  in  en 
tering  the  room,  and  felt  a  thrill  of  satisfac 
tion  at  its  cordial  approval. 

"You  look  magnificently,  Juanita.  Noth 
ing  can  be  better  for  you  than  black  velvet 
and  diamonds." 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  think  me  properly 
dressed.  Fresh  from  Paris  as  you  are,  we  all 
must  look  to  you  as  an  authority." 

"  I  pray  that  you  will  do  no  such  thing,  for 
I  am  the  least  reliable  of  women  in  such 
matters.  I  have  such  a  habit  of  altering  and 
adapting  every  thing,  that  I  am  no  guide  at 
all  in  the  way  of  fashion." 

And  Mrs.  Chappelleford,  suffering  the  loose 
fur-lined  wrap  she  wore  to  drop  into  the  hands 
of  Pauline,  stood  forth  the  living  personifica 
tion  of  one  of  those  rich,  dusky  old  pictures 
before  which  we  stand  for  hours,  silently 
praying  the  mocking  lips  to  open,  the  fathom 
less  eyes  to  return  our  imploring  gaze,  the 
dead  canvas  to  give  up  the  story  and  the 
passion  it  half  reveals,  yet  half  conceals. 

Such  a  picture,  full  of  the  romance  and 
mystery  of  the  past,  mingled  Svith  the  gracious 
and  graceful  womanhood  of  to-day,  looked 
Beatrice,  standing  so  serenely  unconscious  in 
her  quaintly  fashioned  robe  of  violet  silk,  soft 
and  lustreless,  the  ivory  whiteness  of  her 
neck  and  arms  heightened  by  the  yellow  hue 
of  the  old  point-lac.;  shading  them,  her  beau 
tiful  hair  coiffed  in  a  style  all  her  own  and 
Titian's,  and  ornamented  with  sapphires  of 
inestimable  value,  for  they  had  been  wrought 


104 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


in  the  unremembered  years  to  deck  perhaps 
an  empress,  perhaps  some  simpler  yet  nobler 
woman,  and  then  had  returned  to  the  bosom 
of  the  earth  to  wait  through  centuries,  until 
they  again  should  see  the  light  of  day,  and 
again  serve  as  beauty's  foil. 

Mrs.  Barstow  looked  at  her  guest  with 
envy  and  dismay,  thinly  veiled  by  admira 
tion. 

"  My  dearest  Beatrice  !  How  odd,  and  how 
thoroughly  charming !  Where  did  you  get 
that  dress  ?" 

"  I  bought  the  silk  in  Constantinople,  and  it 
was  made  in  Naples.  Do  you  like  it  ?"  asked 
Beatrice  simply. 

"  It  is  lovely.  But  the  fashion  is  so  odd ! 
Are  they  wearing  those  square  necks  in  Paris 
now  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  I  am  sure.  It  is  a  fashion 
I  am  fond  of,  and  I  have  all  my  evening 
dresses  made  in  that  way.  I  believe  I  was 
guilty  of  a  little  plagiarism  in  this,  and  gave 
the  'modiste  a  sketch  to  work  by,  which  I  had 
taken  from  a  picture  in  the  Pitti.  Don't  ex 
pose  my  presumption,  will  you  ?" 

"  I  shall  be  very  good  if  I  refrain,  for  every 
thing  and  every  body  in  my  rooms  will  be 
thrown  into  the  shadow  by  that  toilette  and 
that  wearer,"  said  Mrs.  Barstow  with  a  con 
strained  smile. 

"  How  sorry  I  should  be  to  believe  you,  for 
it  is  so  vulgar  to  be  conspicuous,"  said  Bea 
trice  with  unaffected  dismay.  "  And  I  have 
been  away  so  long  that  I  dare  say  I  may  have 
grown  too  'bizarre  in  my  style.  Shall  I  throw 
a  shawl  over  this  dress  ?" 

"  Nonsense,  my  dear.  No,  indeed,"  said  the 
hostess  with  a  magnanimous  effort  greatly  to 
her  credit.  "  Is  it  your  fault  that  you  are 
charming  ?  But  now,  sit  down  a  moment, 
please,  I  have  something  to  say  to  you,  some 
thing  very  serious." 

With  a  look  of  some  surprise,  Beatrice  took 
the  offered  chair,  and  fixed  her  clear  eyes 
upon  the  face  of  her  hostess,  who  continued 
with  some  embarrassment : 

"  It  is  a  subject  upon  which  we  spoke  once 
before,  and  did  not  agree  very  well,  but  I 
know  you  will  bo  willing  to  help  me,  when  I 
really  need  help." 

"  Certainly,  Juanita,  if  I  can." 

"Mr.  Monckton  was  with  me  yesterday," 
pursued  Mrs.  Barstow  with  a  visible  effort, 
"  and  he  told  me  very  strange  news.  You  re 
member  Major  Strangford,  Beatrice  ?" 


"  I  remember  what  you  told  me  of  him  just 
before  your  marriage  with  my  uncle." 

"  Well,  my  dear,  do  but  fancy  that  this 
man  is  not  dead,  that  he  recovered  from  his 
fever,  heard  of  my  marriage,  and  took  it  so 
to  heart  that  he  actually  married  again  for 
spite,  and  now  has  absolutely  come  home,  is 
in  town  at  this  moment,  and  intends  calling 
here  to-day." 

"  Intends  calling  here  ?" 

"  Exactly,  and  with  the  avowed  purpose  of 
annoying  and  confusing  me.  He  confessed 
as  much  to  Monckton,  who  with  real  kind 
ness  came  to  warn  me.  Now,  Beatrice,  what 
can  I  do  ?" 

"  It  is  a  very  painful  situation,  certainly," 
said  Beatrice  gravely.  "  And  I  do  not  see 
any  thing  that  you  can  do  except  to  assert 
your  position  as  a  wife  and  a  matron  with 
quiet  dignity,  and  by  showing  Major  Strang 
ford  that  the  past  is  really  past  to  you  :  make 
it  impossible  for  him  to  annoy  you  by  bring 
ing  it  up." 

"  Ah  !  but,  Beatrice,  suppose  it  is  not  really 
past,"  exclaimed  Juanita,  clasping  her  hands 
in  an  agitated  manner,  while  her  very  lips 
turned  white. 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,"  said  Beatrice, 
raising  her  eyes  to  the  other's  face  with  a  look 
of  shame  and  surprise.  "  You  cannot  mean 
that  you  still  cherish  any  feeling  of  love  for 
this  man,  and  are  afraid  of  betraying  it?" 

"  But  remember,  Beatrice,  all  that  he  has 
been  to  me  ;  remember  how  much  he  has  suf 
fered  on  my  account ;  remember  the  weakness 
of  a  woman's  heart." 

"  I  remember  only,  Mrs.  Barstow,  that  you 
are  my  uncle's  trusted  wife,  that  you  assumed 
that  position  quite  of  your  own  wish — I  may 
say,  by  your  own  effort,  and  that  the  only  tol 
erable  excuse  you  found  at  that  time  for  not 
revealing  the  whole  truth  to  your  future  hus 
band  was -that  it  was  a  matter  of  the  past  al 
together,  and  that  with  Major  Strangford  had 
died  all  possibility  of  your  swerving  from  the 
affection  you  professed  for  my  uncle.  But  if 
you  intend  to  say  that,  in  finding  this  man 
alive,  you  find  that  you  still  love  him,  and 
dread  to  see  him  on  that  account,  and  are 
asking  me  to  help  and  shield  you  in  this  dis 
graceful  position,  all  I  can  say  is,  that  I  am 
very  much  surprised  at  your  selection  of  a 
confidante,  and  that  I  shall  return  immediately 
home." 

She  rose  as  she  spoke,  and  stood  upright 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


105 


before  the  cowed  and  trembling  woman,  who 
looking  up  at  her  majestic  figure,  and  fac 
severe  and  beautiful  as  that  of  an  offende 
Diana,  felt  a  sudden  sickening  at  the  heart,  i 
recognizing  a  height  to  which  she  migh 
never  hope  to  climb,  which  she  had  neve 
even  imagined  until  that  moment. 

She  caught  at  the  soft,  shining  drapery 
flowing  around  the  stately  figure,  and  fell  upon 
her  knees  before  it. 

"  O  Beatrice,  Beatrice !  I  am  a  poor,  weak 
simple  woman !  Help  me,  save  me  whil 
there  is  yet  time." 

Beatrice  stooped  in  an  instant,  and  tool 
both  the  clinging  hands  in  hers,  a  great  pit} 
softening  the  disdainful  lines  of  her  face,  am 
her  eyes  filling  with  tears. 

"  Don't  do  that,  Juanita,"  said  she  in  a  low 
voice.  "  Get  up,  I  implore  you.  Indeed,  '. 
will  help  you,  if  I  can — or  rather  I  will  help 
you  to  help  yourself,  for  it  is  you  who  must 
do  the  work,  after  all.  There,  let  us  sit  quiet]} 
down  again,  and  consider  the  matter.  Major 
Strangford  is  coming  here  to-day  professedly 
to  annoy  and  embarrass  you.  That  prove 
him  no  gentleman  to  begin  with,  and  proves, 
too,  that  his  feeling  toward  you  is  more  one 
of  enmity  than  good-will.  It  seems  to  me 
that  you  are  not  called  upon  to  treat  such  a 
person  with  much  ceremony.  Why  do  you 
not  tell  the  servant  to  refuse  you  to  him  ?" 

"  That  would  be  almost  impossible  on  New- 
Year's  Day,  when  gentlemen  come  in  such 
numbers,  and  altogether  as  it  were.  They  do 
not  give  their  names  very  often." 

"Well,  then,  if  we  cannot  keep  him  out, 
let  us  consider  how  to  deal  with  him  after  he 
is  in,"  said  Beatrice  almost  gayly  ;  for,  like 
most  proud  and  sensitive  persons,  she  felt  the 
humiliation  she  had  inflicted  more  keenly 
than  even  the  sufferer  herself. 

"And,  after  all,"  continued  she,  "it  is 
better  that  you  should  see  this  person  once, 
to  convince  yourself  how  indifferent  you  have 
become  to  him.  We  all  change  so  rapidly 
that  it  is  very  seldom  wo  find  ourselves  in  the 
same  position  to  any  other  person  after  a  sep 
aration  of  years.  We  have  to  begin  actually 
a  new  acquaintance,  if  we  wish  to  renew 
broken  ties,  and  it  ia  ten  chances  to  one  but 
we  find  our  new  friend  entirely  a  different 
person  from  our  old  one,  and  altogether  un 
congenial  to  our  new  selves.  But  one  can 
avoid  this  shock  by  refraining  from  remaking 
the  acquaintance,  and  just  laying  away  the 


past  memory  in  one's  cabinet  of  curious  an- 
tiques,  properly  numbered  and  classified; 
and,  after  all,  a  cabinet  of  minerals  or  shells, 
or  even  butterflies,  is  better  worth  collecting." 

"You  are  talking  to  yourself  now.  instead 
of  to  me,"  said  Juanita,  half  petulantly,  and 
Beatrice  colored  to  the  waves  of  her  shining 
hair. 

"  That  is  true,"  said  she  frankly.  "  I  too 
married  from  unworthy  motives,  and  I  too 
had  memories  to  subdue,  but  I  replaced  them 
so  thoroughly  with  other  and  better  things 
that  they  soon  ceased  to  trouble  me.  and  it  is 
now  far  beyond  the  power  of  man  to  revive 
them." 

"  And  you  would  not  be  afraid  to  meet  that 
old  lover  of  yours,  ever  so  suddenly,  or  ever 
so  unreservedly  ?"  asked  Juanita  curiously. 

"  I  could  not  meet  him  so  suddenly  as  to 
make  me  forget  our  mutual  position,  and  as 
for  unreserve,  it  seems  to  me  that  every  wife 
should  live  in  an  atmosphere  of  reserve, 
within  which  no  man  can  penetrate,"  said 
Beatrice  so  gravely  that  Juanita  could  not 
pursue  the  subject. 

"  Well,  what  are  we  to  do  in  this  matter  ?" 
asked  she,  after  a  moment  of  awkward  si- 
ence. 

"  Why,  since  you  are  prepared  for  the  attack, 
t  seems  to  me  to  have  lost  all  its  danger,"  re- 
)lied  Beatrice.  "  You  will,  I  suppose,  receive 
Vlajor  Strangford  precisely  as  you  would  any 
)ther  gentleman  ;  forget,  if  you  can,  that  you 
sver  knew  him  more  intimately  than  you  do 
o-day,  and  let  him  perceive  that  youacknowl- 
:dge  no  secret  understanding  whatever  be- 
ween  you." 

I  shall  turn  him  over  to  you,  Beatrice. 
Tou  can  make  him  understand  better  than  I 
hat  he  is  not  welcome  here.  I  am,  after  all, 
he  hostess,  and  must  not  be  rude,  you  know." 
"  There  is  not  the  slightest  occasion  for 
udeness,"  said  Beatrice  a  little  impatiently. 
Your  proper  manner  toward  this  man  is  po- 
.te  formality,  verging  on  indifference.  Rude- 
ess  would  be  almost  as  objectionable  as 
motion.  Let  him  see  that  you  have  no  feei 
ng  of  any  sort  toward  him.  Nothing  will 
iscourage  him  like  that." 
"  But  if  you  have  an  opportunity,  I  wish 
ou  would  let  him  see  that  you  know  all 
bout  him,  and  that  you  mean  to  stand  be- 
ween  me  and  harm." 

"  O  Juanita !  it  is  you  who  must  feel  and 
low  that  such  harm  as  this  cannot  come 


106 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


near  you.  You  must  not  depend  upon  me  or 
any  one,  or  you  will  certainly  be  disappointed 
in  the  end." 

"  Hark  !  There  is  the  bell.  We  must  go 
down,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Barstow,  giving  one 
slow,  comprehensive  glance  at  her  figure  in 
the  mirror,  and  then  sweeping  out  of  the 
room,  sadly  followed  by  Beatrice. 


CHAPTER  XL. 
ALL     THK     WORLD. 

"  I  MADE  eighty-two^  calls  yesterday,  be 
tween  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning  and 
eleven  at  night,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Laforet  upon 
the  second  of  January  in  the  year  of  which  we 
•write,  "  and  I  give  you  my  honor,  sir,  that 
I  did  not  find  a  handsomer  drawing-room,  or 
two  women  any  thing  near  as  handsome  as  at 
Israel  Barstow's.  I  give  you  my  honor,  Mrs. 
Chappelleford,  since  her  return,  is  enough  to 
take  the  breath  right  out  of  a  man  ;  and  Mrs. 
Barstow,  when  she  gets  herself  up  in  black 
velvet,  with  just  a  touch  of  rouge,  and  the 
right  shade  under  her  eyelids,  and  sits  with 
Ler  back  to  the  light,  I  tell  you  she  is  stun 
ning.  As  for  the  spread,  it  was  perfect — just 
enough,  and  nothing  too  much :  sherry  and 
sweet  wines,  but  no  champagne,  no  punch 
bowl — nothing  loud.  No  occasion  for  fellows 
to  carry  olives  in  their  pockets  to  that  house,  or 
to  come  out  of  it  noisy — just  the  best  house  in 
town,  sir,  I  give  you  my  honor." 

And  having  the  opinion  of  such  an  authority 
as  Mr.  Laforet,  we  need  not  doubt  that  Mrs. 
Barstow's  New- Year's  at  home  was  perfectly 
successful,  or  go  farther  into  the  details  of 
the  occasion. 

The  day  wore  on  until  about  five  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon,  and  Mrs.  Barstow  had  just 
smiled  acceptance  of  Mr.  Monckton's  compli 
ments,  when  Beatrice  saw  a  slight,  nervous 
tremor  run  through  her  figure,  and  at  once 
turned  her  own  eyes  toward  the  door. 

A  gentleman  stood  just  within  it,  looking 
•with  peculiar  earnestness  toward  the  hostess — 
a  gentleman  in  middle  life,  of  military  figure 
and  bearing,  and  with  a  face  once  singularly 
handsome,  but  now  wasted  and  haggard  with 
a  life  of  fatigue,  exposure,  and  unrestrained 
passions. 

"  A  volcano  almost  burned  out,"  thought 
Beatrice,  as  she  watched  the  new-comer  ad 
vancing  slowly  up  the  room,  his  eyes  still  in 
tently  fixed  upon  his  hostess,  who,  pretending 


not  to  observe  him,  jested  flippantly  with  Mr. 
Monckton. 

"  Juanita  1"  said  Beatrice  in  a  low  voice, 
and  full  of  meaning. 

Mrs.  Barstow  turned  her  head,  smiled  with 
a  very  tolerable  imitation  of  indifferent  sur 
prise,  and  said  : 

"  Is  it  possible,  Major  Strangford  !  Did  you 
drop  from  the  heavens  among  us  ?" 

"  No,  I  have  come  '  up  from  the  under 
world,'  as  your  favorite  Tennyson  has  it. 
You  see,  I  remember  your  tastes,  Mrs.  Bar- 
stow." 

"  So  good  of  you.  But  then  you  have  been 
out  of  the  world,  and  so  have  had  time  for 
the  pleasures  of  memory.  We  of  the  town 
are  too  busy  for  that  luxury,"  said  Mrs.  Bar- 
stow  with  admirable  sanyfroid. 

"  Beatrice,  allow  me  to  present  Major  Strang 
ford,  a  gentleman  I  used  to  see  in  New-Orleans. 
Mrs.  Chappelleford,  Major  Strangford ;  Mr. 
Monckton,  I  believe,  you  know." 

"  Your  servant,  Mrs.  Chappelleford.  How  are 
you,  Monckton,"  said  the  Major,  acknowledg 
ing  the  presence  of  those  whom  he  addressed 
with  brief  courtesy,  and  turning  again  to 
Juanita  with  a  malicious  smile. 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Barstow,  I  have  just  arrived  in 
town,  and  my  wife  has  hardly  recovered  from 
her  journey;  but  when  she  does  I  hope  she 
will  see  you  among  her  first  visitors.  You 
and  she  should  be  good  friends." 

"  You  are  married,  then  ?  You  forget  that 
we  have  all  been  ignorant  of  your  movements, 
your  very  existence,  I  may  say,  for  so  long, 
that  we  hardly  know  where  to  place  you. 
There  was  even  a  rumor  of  your  death  some 
time  ago.  Did  you  not  tell  me  so,  Mr.  Monck 
ton  ?" 

"  Yes,  several  years  ago,  before  I  went 
abroad." 

"  So  I  was  thinking  ;  but  one  lives  so  fast  in 
these  days,"  said  Mrs.  Barstow,  with  a  little 
sigh  of  protest  against  the  heartlessness  of  the 
age. 

"And  one's  dearest  friends  are  soon  for 
gotten,"  said  Major  Strangford  bitterly. 

"Is  that  your  experience,  Major?  Well, 
now,  I  don't  find  it  so.  Delusions  and  fancies 
pass  away,  but  I  don't  find  that  real  friend 
ships  do.  How  is  it  with  you,  Beatrice  ?" 

"  One  certainly  sees  more  clearly  as  one  gets 
on  in  life,"  said  Beatrice  quietly.  "  And  the 
certainty  that  things  are  at  last  reduced  to 
their  true  limits  is  a  consolation  in  seeing 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


107 


them  lose  the  magnificent  proportions  -with 
which  we  first  invested  them." 

"  Some  things  reduced  to  their  true  limits 
become  so  insignificant  as  to  disappear  alto 
gether,"  replied  Major  Strangford  with  a  sneer. 
"  Lovers'  vows,  for  instance." 

"  Or  mean  revenge,"  added  Beatrice  coolly. 
"  Yes,  most  small  and  false  matters  become 
extinct  with  time.  The  world  has  only  room 
for  truth  and  nobility  of  purpose." 

"  What  a  peculiar  world  you  must  live  in, 
Mrs.  Chappelleford,"  said  Major  Strangford, 
turning  to  stare  her  almost  rudely  in  the  face. 
"  And  what  a  delightful  sympathy  must  exist 
between  Mrs.  Barstow  and  yourself!" 

"  Such  an  one  should  exist,  since  we  are 
kinswomen,  or  at  least  close  connections," 
Baid  Beatrice,  unmoved  by  look  or  tone. 

"  Indeed  !     May  I  ask  how  ?  ' 

"  Mrs.  Barstow  married  my  uncle,  and  I 
hers  ;  so  we  are  naturally  much  together." 

"  I  see  ;  and  you  are  educating  your  niece  in 
your  own  way  of  thinking,  are  you  not  ?" 

"  Juanita,  will  not  the  gentleman  take  some 
refreshments  ?"  asked  Beatrice  as  qutetly  as 
if  she  had  not  heard  the  taunting  question  : 
and  Mrs.  Barstow,  aroused  to  a  memory  of  her 
duties,  hastily  replied  : 

"  Oh !  certainly.  Mr.  Monckton,  will  you  do 
the  honors  of  the  dining  room  to  Major  Strang 
ford  T 

Both  gentlemen  rose,  and  the  entrance  of 
another  party  most  opportunely  offered  cover 
for  a  retreat,  which  might  otherwise  have 
become  very  awkward  ;  but  Mrs.  Barstow, 
smiling  and  bowing  welcome  to  Messieurs 
Kein  and  Gralmme,  could  smile  and  bow  adieu 
to  Messieurs  Monckton  and  Strangford  in  the 
same  breath  and  with  precisely  the  same 
manner. 

An  hour  later,  the  ladies  withdrew  to  rest 
fora  short  period  before  dinner,  and  had  to  pre 
pare  for  the  fatigues  of  the  evening,  Avhich 
was  to  be  celebrated  by  a  "  little  gathering  " 
of  Mrs.  Barstow's  dear  five  hundred  friends. 

"  That  will  do,  Pauline  ;  you  may  go  now," 
said  Mrs.  Barstow  impatiently,  as  the  maid' 
lingered  after  inspecting  and  repairing  the 
fabric  of  her  mistress's  toilet. 

"0  my  dear,  dear  Beatrice !"  continued  she 
as  the  door  closed.  "  I  am  so  obliged  to  you, 
and  how  splendidly  you  stood  by  me  !" 

"'  I  am  sure  I  do  not  see  how,"  replied  Bea 
trice  with  a  smile.  "You  treated  Major 
Strangford  as  a  lady  should  treat  a  gentle 


man,  and  he  treated  both  of  us  as  a  boor 
treats  women  of  whom  he  is  not  afraid.  That 
is  all  there  is  to  say." 

"Well,  he  is  a  boor,  although  I  used  to 
think  him  the  most  polished  gentleman  of 
my  acquaintance,"  said  Mrs.  Barstow  reflect 
ively.  "  But  I  was  entirely  disappointed  in 
him — entirely  shocked,  I  may  say.  Did  you 
notice  how  broken  and  ugly  his  teeth  are  ?" 

"  I  noticed  how  false  and  malicious  his  eyes 
are,  and  how  tremulous  and  dissipated  Lis 
hands,"  said  Beatrice  with  lofty  scorn. 


CHAPTER  XLL 
A  LEAP  FROM  MRS.  CHAFPELLEFORD'S  DIARY. 

"  April  15th. — This  is  my  twenty-fifth  birth 
day,  speaking  after  Babbage — my  thousandth, 
judging  by  my  own  consciousness,  for  it  seems 
to  me  that  the  days  when  I  was  what  I  re 
member  to  have  been  float  backward  faster 
than  the  other  current  carries  me  forward,  so 
that  jouth  retreats  while  age  does  not  ad 
vance  ;  for  I  am  not  old  yet,  I  suppose.  And 
yet,  if  life  is  a  condition  of  progress,  what  is 
left  for  me  to  learn  ?  I  mean,  of  course,  per 
sonally  ;  for  of  intellectual  growth  and  attain 
ment,  there  is  no  end.  But  without  wishing 
to  be  weak  or  sentimental,  I  cannot  but  won 
der  if  science  and  metaphysics,  mathematics 
and  philosophy,  are  the  highest  aims  of  our 
being.  Suppose  we  heap  our  individual 
mound  of  sand  a  few  grains  higher  than  that 
of  our  brother-ant  next  door,  Avhat  then  ?  Is 
it  large  enough  to  hold  us,  after  all?  Or,  on 
the  other  hand,  is  it  worth  while  to  heap  so 
toilfully  a  mound  beneath  which  to  bury  our 
selves  ?  Cheops  always  seemed  to  me  a  victim 
of  Almighty  irony.  He  erected  the  Pyramid, 
and  his  atom  of  mummy  was  lost  in  the  im 
mensity  of  his  memorial. 

"  The  pyramid  of  acquirement  these  men 
about  me  are  piling  for  themselves  will  not 
last  as  long  as  the  stones,  and  it  is  so  much 
harder  to  build  it. 

"  Well,  then,  what  do  we  live  for  ?  To  learn, 
is  the  best  answer,  and  that  is  but  poor.  Five 
years  ago,  I  should  have  said,  to  love  ;  but 
what  puerile  trash  that  all  becomes  as  one 
gets  on  a  little  I  To  be  happy  ?  It  is  only 
another  form  of  the  same  childish  dream. 
How  can  a  rational,  thinking  being,  with  a 
mind  and  reasoning  powers  properly  devel 
oped,  talk  of  being  happy,  when  the  very  fun 
damental  principle  of  existence  is  disappoint- 


108 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


ment  ?  The  child  enters  life  with  hopes 
amounting  to  certainties,  with  ardent  friend 
ships,  loves,  theories.  He  travels  on  and  sees 
them  drop  away,  or,  remaining,  change  like 
fairy  gold  to  worthless  rubbish  in  his  hands, 
until,  at  the  last,  he  stands  beggared  of  all 
but  the  experience  he  has  bought,  the  knowl 
edge  he  has  won.  But  is  this  experience  the 

end  of  life  ?     Is  the  means  also  the  result c! 
*» 

Must  we  give  the  price  of  the  candle  and 
play  the  game  through,  however  little  worth 
we  find  it? 

"  And  then  ?  What  comes  next  ?  Mr.  Chap- 
pelleford  tells  me,  resolution  into  the  elements, 
and  reproduction  in  other  forms  ;  but  what  a 
trivial  idea  that  seems  as  the  grand  motive  of 
creation !  Like  the  games  of  everlasting  I 
used  to  play  with  grandmamma,  when  we 
always  put  the  cards  we  gained  at  the  back  of 
those  in  our  hands,  and  so  never  came  to  the 
end.  Is  eternity  one  grand  game  of  everlast 
ing,  with  the  same  stupid  kings,  and  simper 
ing  queens,  and  contemptible  knaves,  always 
recurring  without  variation  or  amendment? 
But  my  grandfather  and  the  rest  of  his  genus 
tell  me  that  alter  life  and  death  come  heaven 
and  hell,  and  so  describe  a  so"t  of  vaporous, 
gaseous  existence  for  the  good,  and  a  Mumbo- 
jumbo  punishment  for  the  wicked  ;  the  one  too 
tedious,  the  other  too  absurd  for  belief.  Pious 
people  of  more  modern  education  promulgate 
various  theories — some  tolerably  interesting, 
others  tedious,  none  of  them  vital — at  least  to 
me.  It  may  be  that  it  is  this  "  me  "  that  is 
wrong,  and  yet  how  ?  To  return  to  the  pleas 
ant  places  where  these  people  dwell  would 
be  like  returning  to  bread  and  milk,  the 
Arabian  Nights,  and  my  belief  that  heaven 
•was  to  be  scaled  from  the  top  of  Moloch 
Mountain.  I  cannot  go  back,  and  to  go  on 
looks  inexpressibly  dreary  and  tedious. 

"  I  will  study  Sanscrit,  and  help  Mr.  Chap- 
pelleford  in  his  new  work  upon  the  mother  of 
languages.  But  that  is  only  a  way  of  passing 
time  ;  and  how  idle  to  invent  ways  of  passing 
time  when  we  are  waiting  for  nothing  ! 

"  I  never  talked  of  these  matters  with  Mars- 
ton  Brent.  I  wonder  what  convictions  he 
has  arrived  at,  for  he  will  not  fail  to  have 
wrought  some  answer  to  the  eternal  problem  ? 
I  should  like  to  see  that  man  again,  and  study 
him  as  a  specimen  of  human  nature.  I  hope 
he,  like  me,  has  forgotten  all  that  foolish  past, 
and  either  has  married  the  girl  of  whom  they 
told  me  or  contented  himself  with  marrying 


no  one.  I  am  glad  I  married.  Mr.  Chappelle- 
ford  has  fulfilled  his  promises  to  the  letter. 
He  has  taught  me  much  that  is  worth  know 
ing,  and  untaught  me  more  that  was  best 
abandoned.  He  says  now  that  I  am  more 
personal  than  womanly,  and  he  congratulates 
himself  and  me  upon  the  improvement. 
Well,  I  suppose  it  is  one  ;  but  I  sometimes 
envy  Juanita  with  her  milliners,  and  uphol 
sterers,  and  cosmetics,  and  Laforets.  There 
is  no  danger  of  her  exhausting  her  world,  or 
asking  herself  '  Cui  bonof  Wrell,  I  will  study 
Sanscrit " 

The  opening  door  made  Beatrice  glance 
round,  and  the  sentence  was  not  finished,  for 
Mr.  Chappelleford  entered  with  an  open  let 
ter  in  his  hand. 

"  My  good  child,  prepare  for  sad  news," 
said  he  kindly.  "  I  have  here  a  letter  from 
Dr.  Bliss,  who  tells  me  that  your  grandfather 
— you  know,  Beatrice,  that  he  has  been  failing 
for  months " 

"  And   lie  is  dead  ?"  asked  Beatrice  calmly. 

"  Yes,  my  dear.  He  died  yesterday  about 
noon,  quietly,  and  without  suffering,  Bliss 
says.  You  will  wish  to  go  to  Milvor,  I  sup 
pose." 

"  Certainly,  at  once." 

"  I  have  already  ordered  a  carriage  and 
some  lunch,  for  you  must  eat  before  we  set 
out." 

"We?" 

"  Of  course,  I  shall  go  with  you  ;  I  am  your 
husband." 

"  True,  I  had  forgotten." 

And  Beatrice  locked  her  desk,  and  left  the 
room  quietly,  and  without  a  tear.  Mr.  Chap 
pelleford  looked  after  her  thoughtfully. 

"  I  am  glad  of  this,"  said  he  at  last.  "  She 
has  lived  upon  the  heights  long  enough  for 
once.  A  little  human  emotion  will  be  a  re 
lief,  and  she  will  return  by  and  by  with  fresh 
ardor  to  the  region  of  abstractions.  The  at 
mosphere  is  too  thin  for  a  woman  to  breathe 
without  occasional  relief.  After  this,  we  will 
go  to  the  West  to  make  those  mound  explora 
tions." 


CHAPTER  XLII. 
CHILDISH. 

"  YOU'RE  welcome  home,  Beatrice,  though 
you've  grown  such  a  stranger,"  said  Mrs. 
Bliss,  embracing  her  niece  with  a  sort  of  re 
proachful  fondness.  "  You've  only  been  down 
once  since  you  got  back  from  Europe." 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


109 


"  I  know  it,  aunt.  I  should  Lave  come 
oftener,"  said  Beatrice  wearily. 

Mrs.  Bliss  looked  sharply  into  her  face  a 
moment,  then  laying  both  hands  upon  her 
shoulders,  as  she  had  often  done  when  charg 
ing  her  with  some  childish  sin,  she  said  in 
terrogatively  : 

"  You're  not  happy,  Trix  ?" 

Beatrice  winced. 

"  Don't  call  me  Trix,  please,  aunt.  Or,  no, 
why  should  I  not  like  it  ?  But  it  belongs  to 
the  old  times,  you  know,  and  I  have  changed 
BO  much  that " 

"  That  what,  Beatrice?    Are  you  happy  ?" 

"  I  suppose  so,  aunt.     But  grandpapa " 

"  Yes ;  you  shall  see  him  in  a  moment. 
That  is,  unless  you  had  rather  wait." 

"  I — I  do  not  think  I  want  to  see  him," 
stammered  Beatrice,  turning  very  pale. 

"  Not  see  him  at  all !  Why  Beatrice  Wan- 
sted  !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bliss  with  such  genu 
ine  horror  and  surprise  that  Beatrice  hastened 
to  add  : 

"  That  is,  not  to-night,  aunt.  I  feel  rather 
tired  and  faint  after  my  journey,  and  you  know 
I  never  paw  any  thing  of  that  sort,  and " 

"  '  Thing  of  that  sort !'  "  interrupted  Rachel, 
more  and  more  displeased.  "  What  are  you 
talking  of,  Beatrice?  Because  your  grand 
father  has  died,  and  his  spirit  gone  to  eternal 
glory  and  happiness,  has  his  body  become 
something  to  be  afraid  of  and  disgusted  at? 
Just  fancy  that  he's  asleep  instead  of  dead — 
and  in  point  of  fact,  it's  nothing  more  ;  for  he 
is  asleep,  and  will  wake  up  at  the  last  day 
j  ust  as  good  as  new." 

"I  will  see  him  by-and-by.  Aunt  Rachel," 
said  Beatrice,  putting  by  with  dignity  the  ar 
gument  she  felt  hopeless  of  supporting.  "  How 
is  grandmamma  ?" 

"  Poor,  dear  old  lady,  she  is  in  a  very  dis 
tressing  condition,  too,"  said  Mrs.  Bliss,  shak 
ing  her  head  hopelessly.  "  She  is  quite 
childish  now — has  been  for  a  month  or  more, 
and  she  don't  understand  any  thing  about 
father's  being  dead.  She  thinks  he's  away 
somewhere,  and  she  keeps  mourning  for  him 
the  whole  time.  We  showed  her  the  body, 
and  all,  but  it  didn't  seem  to  convince  her. 
She  looked  at  it,  and  then  hushed  us  with  her 
finger,  and  tiptoed  out  of  the  room  for  fear  of 
waking  him  up.  But  the  next  minute  she 
Vgan  moaning  again  just  the  same  way. 
She'd  forgotten,  you  see.  Hush!  she's  coining 
up-stairs  now  1" 


And  Mrs.  Bliss,  followed  by  her  niece,  hast 
ened  out  into  the  passage  to  meet  the  wid 
owed  mother,  who  stood  clinging  to  the  rail 
ing  beside  the  stairs,  looking  about  her  in  a 
bewildered  manner. 

"  O  Rachel !  is  that  you  ?  And  who  else  is 
up  here  ?" 

"  Only  Beatrice,  mother  —  our  Trix,  you 
know.  We  were  just  coming  down  to  see 
you,"  said  Rachel  very  gently. 

"  Beatrice — oh !  yes — Beatrice.  Where  ia 
Alice?" 

"  Why,  mother,  she  is  dead  long  ago.    She 


"She  seated  herself  at  her  grandmother's  feet." 

died  when  Beatrice  was  born ;  don't  you  re 
member  ?" 

"And  Arthur— no,  Arthur  was  married  to 
you — he  didn't  die,  did  he  ?" 

"  Yes,  mother,"  said  Rachel  softly. 

"  Dear  grandmamma,  you  remember  me, 
don't  you?"  asked  Beatrice,  tenderly  leading 
the  bewildered  woman  into  the  chamber  they 
had  just  quitted,  and  seating  her  in  the  great 
square  easy-chair  before  the  fire.  "  I  will  stay 
here  and  talk  with  her  a  little  while,  aunt ; 
and  you  can  go  and  see  after  the  others,"  said 
Mrs.  Chappelleford  aside  ;  and  as  Rachel  soft 
ly  left  the  room,  she  seated  herself  upon  a  low 
stool  at  her  grandmother's  feet. 


110 


THE   SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


"You  remember  me,  dear,  don't  you?" 
asked  she  again. 

And  the  old  lady  laid  a  tremulous  hand  upon 
her  bright  head,  and  stooped  to  look  into  her 
face  with  the  anxious  scrutiny  of  failing 
sight. 

"  Why,  of  course  I  remember  you,  Alice. 
What  should  ail  me  not  to  know  my  own 
child  ?"  said  she  presently,with  a  little  crackling 
laugh.  "  And  my  favoright  child,  too  ;  though 
the  deacon  he  always  said  there  shouldn't  be 
any  favorights  in  families.  But  then,  Alice, 
you  always  was  so  winning  and  pretty,  how 
could  we  help  it  ?  And  though  I  knew  Rachel 
was  disappointed,  I  couldn't  blame  Arthur 
not  one  mite,  not  one  mite  ;  and  then,  again, 
Rachel  married — let  me  see,  she  married — 
well,  I  forget  his  name ;  but  she  was  married 
some  time  before  she  died.  Have  you  seen 
father,  Alice  ?" 

"No,  dear  grandmamma.  My  father  is  in 
Leaven,  they  say.  Where  is  heaven,  grand 
mother  ?" 

"  Heaven  ?  Why,  Alice  Barstow,  a  great 
girl  like  you  ask  such  a  simple  question ! 
Heaven  is  where  the  whole  air  is  made  up  of 
love,  and  nothing  to  hinder  or  harm  love. 
God  loves  men  ;  but  somehow  we're  so  far  off 
down  here  that  we  don't  always  seem  to  feel 
the  love ;  and  then  again,  there's  so  much 
going  on  in  the  world  that  half  the  time  we 
forget  to  love  each  other  with  all  our  might, 
same  as  we're  told  we  ought  to.  Well,  now, 
in  heaven,  you  see,  close  up  to  God,  we  shall 
breathe  in  His  love,  just  as  we  do  the  common 
air  here,  and  so  we  shall  act  it  out  to  each 
other  j  ust  as  here  we  act  out  nater',  because 
love  will  be  nater'  then,  don't  you  see  ?" 

But  Beatrice,  with  her  head  bowed  between 
her  hands,  did  not  reply,  and  the  old  woman 
went  on  : 

"  Now,  there's  father  and  me.  When  we 
were  young  I  don't  suppose  there  ever  were 
two  sweethearts  set  more  by  each  other  than 
we  did.  He'd  have  given  up  all  the  world 
for  me,  and  I'd — well,  I'd  be  afraid  to  say 
what  I'd  have  given  up  for  him.  And  so  it 
was  along  for  a  while  after  we  got  married. 
But  then  came  the  children,  and  the  farm, 
and  a  whole  grist  of  work  and  trouble  and 
care,  and  then  he  and  me  sort  of  fell  off,  not 
from  loving,  but  from  talking  about  it  and 
showing  it  out.  And  then  we  got  old  ;  and 
old  folks  they  get  sort  of  crusted  over — like 
Rachel's  preserves,  I  think.  The  sweet's  all 


there  just  the  same,  only  it  can't  get  through 
the  snell,  and  any  one  that  didn't  know 
would  think  'twas  sp'ilt.  That's  the  way  it 
is  with  old  folks  like  father  and  me.  But, 
Alice,  when  once  we  get  into  that  heaven  full 
of  love  I  was  telling  you  of,  the  crust  will 
melt  right  off  in  the  fire  of  God's  love  for  us 
both,  and  we  shall  know  that  we're  just  the 
same  to  each  other  that  we  were  in  those 
young  days.  Just  the  same?  No!  a  thou 
sand  times  better,  and  dearer,  and  worthier  ; 
for  then  we  shall  be  angels  instead  of  men. 
I  wonder  if  father  thinks  about  that  ?  I  forgot 
to  say  any  thing  to  him  about  it.  I'll  go  talk 
with  him  now  a  little." 

And  the  old  lady  rose  from  her  chair  almost 
with  the  vigor  of  youth,  stood  a  moment 
looking  about  her  in  a  bewildered  way,  then 
turned  to  Beatrice,  while  over  her  face,  but 
now  clear  and  bright  as  with  the  reflection  of 
heavenly  light,  dropped  a  sudden  veil  of  hu 
man  infirmity  and  decrepitude. 

"  Rachel !  No — Alice,  where's  father  ?  I 
want  father.  Where  has  he  gone  ?"  said  she 
piteously. 

"  Let  us  go  and  see,  dear  grandmother. 
Lean  upon  me,  for  I  know  you  are  tired. 
Won't  you  come  and  lie  down  for  a  little 
while  before  we  look  for  him?"  asked  Bea 
trice  soothingly  ;  and  passing  her  arm  around 
her  grandmother's  waist,  she  led  her  gently 
down- stairs. 

"  Maybe  he's  lying  down.  He  has  been 
rather  poorly  along  back.  I'm  afraid  he  hurt 
himself  haying.  Reuben  and  Israel  were 
both  away,  and  the  heft  of  the  work  came 
upon  the  deacon.  I  guess  he's  lying  down  a 
spell." 

So  -maundering,  she  allowed  herself  to  be 
gently  led  to  her  bedroom,  and  persuaded  to 
lie  down  and  rest  a  little  while  waiting  for 
the  object  of  her  ceaseless  questioning  to  ap 
pear. 

Beatrice  sat  beside  her,  pale,  sad,  and 
thoughtful.  Once  she  raised  the  poor,  wasted 
hand  she  held  to  her  lips,  and  murmured  : 

"  O  mother  !  make  me  believe  as  you  be 
lieve." 

But  in  the  other  room  Mrs.  Bliss  was  saying 
to  her  brother,  who  had  come  without  his 
wife  to  attend  his  father's  funeral : 

"  Poor  mother  !  She  is  perfectly  childish 
now.  You  cannot  rely  upon  a  word  she 
says." 

"  She's  been  a  good  mother  to  us,  Rachel. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


Ill 


She  made  a  happy  home  and  a  good  one  for 
us  when  we  were  growing  up,"  said  Israel 
Barstovv  a  little  reprovingly. 

And  Rachel  mournfully  assented. 

"  You're  right,  brother.  She's  been  the  best 
of  mothers  to  us,  and  now  that  she's  old  and 
childish,  she  shall  want  for  nothing  that  I  can 
do  for  her." 

Mr.  Barstow  was  silent.  His  sister's  tone 
jarred  unpleasantly  upon  some  hidden  chord, 
but  just  where  or  what,  he  could  not  tell. 
Perhaps  the  successful  merchant,  the  admir 
ing  husband,  the  respected  citizen  had  found 
nothing  since  so  sweet  or  so  dear  as  his 
mother's  love  and  pride  in  him.  Perhaps 
this  mother-love,  confined  in  some  hearts  to  a 
narrow  cell,  had  been  forced  by  the  emptiness 
of  the  other  chambers  in  Israel  Barstow's 
heart  to  expand  beyond  its  usual  dimensions. 
However  it  may  have  been,  it  hurt  him  sorely 
to  hear  his  sister  speak,  even  as  kindly  and 
protectingly  as  she  did,  of  their  mother's 
state  of  second  childhood,  and  he  presently 
stole  away  to  the  bedroom  where  she  lay, 
dozing  lightly,  her  hand  in  that  of  Beatrice's. 

Nodding  to  his  niece,  he  seated  himself 
beside  her,  his  strong,  broad  hand  lightly  laid 
upon  his  mother's  dress ;  and  so  they  sat  to 
gether,  silent,  and  each  absorbed  in  thought, 
•while  the  soft  April  twilight  stole  into  the 
room,  and  the  last  ray  of  sunlight  quivered 
like  a  glory  upon  the  white  hair  of  the 
s|eeper,  as  she  murmured  in  her  dream  of 
"  Father,  dear !" 


CHAPTER  XLm. 
HUSBAND  AND  WIFE. 

PRESENTLY,  when  Mrs.  Bliss  came  to 
prepare  her  mother  for  tea,  and  then  for 
bed,  Beatrice  glided  quietly  away,  and,  after 
lingering  a  moment  at  the  door,  entered  the 
great  parlor,  where  she  knew  that  her  grand 
father  was  lying. 

She  had  not  been  in  the  room  since  that 
time — now  four  years  gone  past — when  she 
heard  that  Marston  Brent  had  forgotten  her, 
and  when  Monckton  had  vainly  striven  to 
comfort  her  despair.  As  she  closed  the  door, 
she  remembered  it,  and  stood  for  a  moment 
with  vacant  eyes  looking  back  into  the  past, 
and  pitying  the  Beatrice  who  had  so  suffered 
in  that  almost  forgotten  time. 

"  It  was  her  death-agony.  She  cannot  suf 
fer  any  more,  poor  thing !"  whispered  she  at 


last,  with  a  smile  sadder  than  any  tears  ;  and 
then  she  went  softly  forward,  and  stood  beside 
the  quiet  figure,  stretched,  as  yet  uncoffined, 
upon  a  table  in  the  centre  of  the  room. 

Dressed  as  she  had  often  seen  him,  with  his 
shapely  hands  folded  upon  his  breast — a  placid 
smile  upon  his  lips,  and  his  eyes  naturally 
closed,  he  looked  as  if  indeed  he  slept,  and 
should  presently  awake  refreshed  and  glad. 
Or  so  Beatrice  thought  at  first ;  but  when  she 
had  stood  for  many  moments  beside  that  mo 
tionless  form,  had,  as  it  were,  gathered  into 
her  inmost  consciousness  the  awful  calm,  the 
utter  silence  of  that  presence,  had  tried  and 
failed  to  comprehend  the  suggestions  of  vast- 
ness,  of  immeasurable  distance,  which  seemed 
to  pervade  the  icy  atmosphere  of  the  chamber — 
when  she  touched  that  brow,  so  serene  in  its 
white  calm,  so  unlike  any  thing  human  in  its 
feeling — then,  for  the  first  time,  the  shadow  of 
death  fell  upon  Beatrice  Chappelleford's  life — 
then,  for  the  first  time,  she  knew  how  puny,  how 
idle,  how  impious  were  the  theories  and  ac 
tions  by  which  she  and  her  teachers  had  tried 
to  measure  eternity. 

Sinking  upon  her  knees,  as  if  crushed  by 
the  weight  of  that  mighty  conviction,  she  hid 
her  face  between  her  trembling  hands,  and 
murmured : 

"  O  God  !  I  acknowledge  thee  in  death  ! — 
teach  me  to  know  thee  in  life." 

It  was  the  only  prayer  she  had  breathed  for 
years  ;  and  the  heart  she  had  thought  dead 
stirred  in  its  slumber  as  the  holy  words  re 
echoed  through  its  silent  chambers. 

She  still  knelt,  wrapped  in  strange  yet 
sweetly  familiar  reverie,  when  the  door  opened 
j  softly,  and  her  aunt's  hushed  voice  summoned 
her  forth. 

"  He  looks  natural,  don't  he  ?"  whimpered 
she,  as  Beatrice  silently  passed  her.  "  I  won 
der  how  much  of  him  is  left  in  that  body,  af 
ter  all.  It  don't  seem  as  if  he  and  it  could 
become  strangers  all  at  once,  does  it  ?" 

"  O  Aunt  Rachel !  I  dare  not  think  or 
speak  of  such  matters,"  moaned  Beatrice, 
gliding  past  her  aunt  and  hiding  from  herself 
in  the  lighted,  warmed,  and  human  eastern 
room. 

In  the  gray  twilight  of  the  next  morning, 
Mrs.  Bliss  stood  beside  her  niece  and  laid  a 
hand  upon  her  shoulder. 

"  Beatrice !  do  you  know  where  your  grand 
mother  has  gone  ?"  said  she  in  a  frightened 
voice. 


112 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


"  Gone  !  No,  indeed.  Has  slie  gone  ?"  ex 
claimed  Beatrice,  rising  hastily. 

"  Yes.  I  slept  with  her  because  she  seemed 
so  restless  and  queer,  I  was  afraid  she  was  go 
ing  to  be  sick ;  and  when  I  woke  just  now 
she  was  gone.  My  first  thought  was  that  she 
might  have  come  up  to  see  you,  because  she 
seemed  so  pleased  yesterday." 

"  No,  she  has  not  been  here.  Let  us  go  and 
look  for  her.  Can  she  have  gone  out  of  the 
house  ?" 

"  It  may  be.  Why,  where  is  your  husband, 
Beatrice  ?" 

"  He  sleeps  upon  the  couch  in  the  dressing- 
room.  Come,  aunt." 

And  Beatrice  hastily  left  the  room,  followed 
by  Mrs.  Bliss,  in  whose  breast  anxiety  for  her 
mother  struggled  with  a  curiosity  almost  as 
strong. 

The  house  was  hastily  searched — the  out 
side  doors  tried  and  found  fast,  and  the  rest 
of  the  family  roused  and  alarmed  ;  but  still 
the  childish,  bereaved  old  mother  was  not 
found. 

At  last,  Beatrice  laid  her  hand  upon  the 
door  of  the  great  parlor. 

"  We  have  not  looked  here,"  said  she. 

"  That  door  is  locked  all  the  time  ;  and  be 
fore  I  went  to  bed,  I  took^out  the  key  and 
put  it  in  my  pocket,"  said  Rachel  positively. 

"  Is  it  there  now  ?" 

"  I  suppose  so."  And  Mrs.  Bliss  thrust  her 
hand  into  her  pocket,  withdrew  it,  and  turned 
very  pale. 

"  No,  it  is  not  there.     Try  the  door." 

"  It  is  fastened,  but  I  think  only  by  the  but 
ton  inside.  It  is  not  locked,"  said  Beatrice  in 
a  low  voice. 

"  Let  us  try."  And  Mrs.  Bliss,  raising  the 
latch,  applied  a  strong  and  steady  pressure  to 
the  only  slightly  resisting  door,  which  pres 
ently  yielded  with  a  low,  rending  sound. 

The  two  women  passed  through  and  stood 
beside  the  dead,  over  whose  form  and  face  his 
daughter  had  reverently  spread  a  fair  linen 
sheet  before  leaving  him  to  his  silent  watch. 
This  she  now  turned  down,  and  stood  stricken 
dumb  at  the  piteous  yet  beautiful  sight  before 
her. 

The  loving  wife  had  found  her  husband — 
the  childish  mother  had  passed  to  wisdom  and 
knowledge  unutterable  —  the  failing,  faded 
form  lay  cold  and  silent  there,  yet  glorified 
even  to  outward  sense  by  the  majesty  and  holi 
ness  of  the  life  to  which  its  soul  had  passed. 


She  had  crept  close  to  her  husband's  side, 
laid  her  head  upon  his  breast,  and  her  arm 
around  his  neck,  and  so  had  fallen  asleep  with 
a  serene  smile  upon  her  lips,  and  a  look  of 
sweet  content  upon  her  face,  which  seemed  to 
glorify  it  like  that  of  a  saint.  Looking  down 
at  her  with  loving  awe,  Beatrice  remembered 
her  words  qf  the  day  before  : 

"  And  then  we  shall  know  that  we're  just 
the  same  to  each  other  that  we  were  in  those 
young  days." 

"  They  know  it  now,"  murmured  she,  rever 
ently  smoothing  away  the  silver  tress  of  the 


"  The  little  green  churchyard. " 

wife's  hair  which  fell  across  the  husband's 
lips. 

"  They  know  it  now,  and  more  than  that." 
And  so,  the  next  day,  a  double  funeral  went 
out  from  the  Old  Garrison  House  ;  and  they 
who  had  been  lovely  in  their  lives  were  not 
divided  in  their  death,  and  sleep  to-day  side 
by  side  in  the  little  green  churchyard,  be 
neath  the  shadow  of  Moloch. 

They  sleep?  Oh!  no,  not  they,  but  the 
perishing  forms  that  held  them  here  ;  for  they 
wake  eternally  in  a  life  to  which  this  is  but 
death. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


113 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 
A.   STONE   FOK  BREAD. 

"AND  now,  Beatrice,"  said  Mr.  Chappelle- 
ford  one  day  in  May,  "  my  preparations  are 
complete ;  and  as  soon  as  you  are  ready,  we 
will  begin  our  Western  journey." 

"  I  am  ready  at  any  time,"  said  Beatrice,  with 
out  raising  her  eyes. from  the  book  upon  her  lap, 
although  she  had  not  read  a  word  in  it  for  at 
least  an  hour. 

Mr.  Chappelleford  looked  at  her  specula- 
lively. 

"  My  objection  to  most  things  has  been," 
said  he  at  length,  "that  you  come  to  the  end 
of  them  before  they  make  an  end  of  you.  I 
was  in  hopes  that  you  would  not  prove  so 
transitory.  Are  you  going  to  disappoint 
me?'' 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  asked  Beatrice,  rais 
ing  her  heavy  eyes. 

"  I  found  you  five  years  ago,  young,  inex 
perienced,  with  a  mind  framed  for  powerful 
exertion,  and  at  that  time  utterly  empty  and 
untrained.  What  little  of  life  you  had  seen 
had  disappointed  and  outraged  your  precon 
ceived  notions,  for  you  had  no  ideas  worthy 
of  the  name,  and  you  were  just  in  the  mood 
to  turn  to  something  new,  larger,  and  higher 
than  you  had  yet  found.  I  gave  you  this  new 
pabulum  in  the  form  of  knowledge,  and 
through  the  door  of  science  led  you  into  a 
new  and  inexhaustible  region  of  discovery  and 
attainment.  You  followed  me  with  the  docil 
ity  and  naive  delight  of  a  child,  accepted  all 
that  I  offered  with  unhesitating  faith,  and 
avowed  yourself  overjoyed  in  the  exchange 
you  had  made  from  the  old  routine  existence 
of  most  women — yes,  and  of  most  men,  too — to 
this  higher  plane,  where  only  man,  at  his 
farthest  remove  from  the  monkey,  can  hope  to 
dwell.  Do  you  follow  me,  and  do  I  speak  the 
truth  ?" 

"  Perfectly.  And  how  do  I  now  disappoint 
you?"  asked  Beatrice  faintly. 

"  By  coming  to  the  end  of  your  growth,  and 
beginning  the  retrogressive  process  which,  in 
man,  follows  maturity.  You  have  been  to  me 
a  fellow-thinker — you  threaten  to  become  only 
a  woman.  I  thought  you  were  past  the 
mourning  for  lost  lives  ;  the  speculating  upon 
future  existence  ;  th.e  pondering  of  creeds  and 
dogmas,  which  have  absorbed  you  during  the 
last  month.  You  could  and  would  have  pur 
sued  this  course  at  twenty.  After  five  years 
of  growth,  I  expected  higher  results." 


"  How  do  you  know  my  thoughts  ?  I  havo 
not  expressed  them,"  asked  Beatrice,  flushing 
scarlet ;  but  Mr.  Chappelleford  replied  only  by 
a  contemptuous  gesture. 

"  Womanish,  womanish  !"  .  muttered  he, 
turning  away. 

"  Well,  but  now  that  you  have  found  m» 
out,  give  me  at  least  some  counsel,  if  you  can — 
some  comfort,"  cried  Beatrice  bitterly.  "  I 
have  met  with  a  loss,  with  a  grief,  none  the 
less  keen  because  inevitable.  My  parents 
have  passed  from  my  sight,  full  of  faith  and 
hope  in  a  life  beyond  the  grave.  Your  phil 
osophy  and  your  science  refuse  to  recognize 
the  validity  of  such  hope  ;  they  coldly  ask  for 
proof,  and  there  is  no  proof.  But  can  I  be 
lieve  those  holy  liyes  ended  in  the  six  feet  of 
earth  where  the  venerable  bodies  were  laid  ? 
And  if  not,  where  have  they  gone — where  are 
we  going — what  conditions  await  us — how 
shall  we  prepare  for  them  ?  Are  not  we  wan 
dering  blindly  in  the  dark  with  the  light  be 
hind  us  ?  Have  not  we  too  soon  despised  the 
simple  faith  of  unlearned  minds,  and  substi 
tuted  the  pride  of  human  intellect  for  the 
voice  of  God  within  our  hearts  ?  0  Mr. 
Chappelleford!  you  are  wiser  and  far  more 
learned  than  I,  but  are  you  sure  that  you  are 
not  the  blind  leading  the  blind  toward  the 
Verge  of  a  terrible  precipice  ?" 

The  philosopher  shaded  his  eyes  with  his 
hand,  and  from  beneath  that  screen,  regarded 
with  attentive  scrutiny  the  beautiful  face  of  his 
wife,  pale,  haggard,  and  almost  ghastly  with 
emotion. 

"  I  have  not  sufficiently  considered  your 
youth,"  said  he  at  last.  "  All  this  must  come, 
and  I  suppose  no  theorizing  can  take  the  place 
of  actual  experience.  But  it  passes,  as.  every 
thing  passes,  great  and  small — every  thing 
but  the  eternal  laws  of  Nature — and  who  is  to 
say  that  Nature  itself  has  no  limit?  Perhaps 
the  colophon  of  what  wo  call  the  Book  of  Na 
ture  is  Annihilation." 

"  You  do  not  answer  me." 

"  How  can  I  ?  When  a  child  comes  to  me, 
crying  for  the  stars,  what  am  I  to  do  with 
him?  Put  him  off  for  a  while;  and  when  he 
is  calm,  explain  to  him  what  the  stars  really 
are.  I  know  of  no  better  course." 

"  But  I  am  no  child." 

"  You  talk  like  one." 

"  Well,  then,  instruct  me,  educate  me,  an 
swer  as  gravely  as  I  ask  them,  these  questions 
which  torment  my  soul." 


114 


THE   SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


"  How  can  I  answer  rationally  questions 
which  every  reflecting  mind  answers  to  itself, 
and  in  its  own  fashion?  1  can  give  you  my 
ideas,  but  I  do  not  ask  you  to  adopt  them  as 
yours.  Very  wise  men  have  been  devotees — 
even  bigots;  others  as  wise  have  been  infidels, 
as  they  are  called.  Take  your  own  course ; 
but  it'  you  follow  me,  you  will  arrive  at  my 
conclusions.  I  look  about  me,  using  first  my 
own  eyes,  my  own  brain,  and  afterward  the 
eyes  and  brains  of  other  people.  I  see  a  vast 
system  called  Nature— self-sustaining,  immuta 
ble,  unsympathetic,  irresponsible.  It  governs 
men  and  things — creates,  sustains,  destroys,  not 
from  motives  of  benevolence  or  of  malevolence, 
not  to  reward  or  to  punish,  but  simply  because 
birth,  death, life  are  its  fundamental  principles. 
The  acorn  drops  upon  the  earth,  and  is  cov 
ered  by  leaves  and  moss  ;  it  sprouts  and  grows 
up  into  a  promising  tree ;  comes  the  north 
wind  and  twists  it  off  at  the  root ;  it  dies  and 
becomes  mould,  wherein  sprout  other  acorns. 
Do  the  surrounding  oaks  cry  :  '  Glory  Halle 
lujah  !  A  miracle!  a  special  dispensation! 
a  gift  from  Heaven !'  when  the  oakling 
sprouts ;  or  do  they  abase  themselves  in  the 
dust  when  it  dies,  and  demand  of  each  other 
why  this  terrible  thing  has  happened,  and 
how  they  are  to  guard  themselves  against  the 
same  fate  ?  Nor  do  they  waste  time  in  inquir 
ing  where  the  sap  dried  out  of  that  dead 
trunk  has  gone,  or  whether  there  may  exist 
some  unknown  limbo  whither  it  has  fled, 
and  become  the  ghost  of  its  former  self.  The 
oaks  recognize  and  submit  to  the  inevitable 
law,  simply  because  it  is  inevitable.  Cannot 
you  be  as  wise?" 

"  But  man  is  different  from  an  oak.  He  is 
the  chief  and  crown  of  creation.  All  this 
system  operates  for  his  use  and  benefit." 

"  If  he  goes  along  with  it,  it  does  ;  if  he 
goes  contrary  to  it,  he  gets  run  over  and 
smashed.  Make  a  ship,  and  the  ocean  will 
float  it  and  the  wind  propel  it ;  throw  yourself 
into  the  water  bodily,  and  the  sea  will  drown 
you  ;  go  up  in  a  balloon,  and  the  wind  will 
carry  you  to  the  Mountains  of  the  Moon,  and 
dash  you  to  pieces  there.  People  talk  of  gov 
erning  Nature,  and  they  talk  rubbish  ;  the 
most  they  can  do  is  to  submit  to  her  laws, 
and  preserve  their  own  devices  subject  to  those 
laws — never  forgetting  that  one  of  the  princi 
pal  of  them  is  ultimate  transmutation  of 
every  form  of  material  in  her  laboratory,  man 
among  the  rest." 


"  But  what  is  the  end  ?  For  what  purpose 
is  all  this  vast  machinery  put  in  motion '! 
Who  created  Nature,  and  for  what,  and  what 
is  the  grand  result '( '  asked  Beatrice  wearily. 

"  Asking  for  the  stars  again  ?  Your  ques 
tions  are  too  childish,  but  I  will  try  to  answer 
them.  The  end  '?  There  is  none,  but  the  ne 
cessity  of  some  form  of  existence.  The  pur 
pose  ?  Nature  knows  no  purpose,  but  simply 
superadds  effect  upon  cause  because  such  se 
quence  is  inevitable  under  her  laws.  Who  cre 
ated  her  and  her  laws  ?  She  herself  is  Crea 
tor  and  Eternal.  And  the  grand  result  ?  The 
perfect  unison  of  man  with  Nature.  Through 
the  ages,  he  is  learning  to  understand  and  co 
operate  with  her  more  and  more,  to  '  flash  the 
lightnings,  weigh  the  sun,'  as  some  one  of 
these  rhymsters  has  it,  to  work  with  her,  and 
in  measuring  his  wishes  by  her  will,  gain  her 
powerful  assistance  instead  of  her  fatal  an 
tagonism.  The  grand  result,  as  I  fancy,  will 
be  an  earth  where  man  is  at  last  supreme, 
where  he  will  create  and  destroy  life,  rule  the 
seasons,  sway  the  elements,  command  all  the 
forces  of  Nature — but  always,  mind  you,  sub 
ject  to  her  laws — and  where,  indeed,  he  shall 
at  last  deserve  the  name  of  a  god.  You  see, 
child,  I  too  indulge  in  dreams  sometimes,  al 
though  I  do  not  often  expose  the  weakness." 

"  But  in  that  millennium  will  the  souls  and 
hearts  of  men  also  rise  to  the  godlike  level 
of  their  minds  ?  Will  perfect  happiness  reign 
then  upon  the  earth  ?" 

"  I  thought  you  had  a/bandoned  that  sense 
less  cry.  Happiness  ?  It  is  the  content  of 
fools.  A  wise  man  finding  himself  at  the 
highest  attainable  point  of  knowledge  and 
power,  sees  beyond  him  a  thousand  yet  inac 
cessible  summits,  and  understands  that  effort, 
like  attainment,  is  limitless  and  eternal.  No 
man  ever  in  the  past  has  said,  no  man  in  the 
future  shall  say  : '  I  have  conquered,  I  have  fin 
ished  !'  And  until  then  I  cannot  conceive  of 
what  you  call  happiness." 

•'  And  there  is  no  world  beyond  this,  you 
think  ?" 

"  Wait,  my  dear,  until  this  one  has  been 
thoroughly  explained  before  you  invite  me  to 
another.  When  some  one  has  verified  Speke's 
discovery  of  the  Nile,  and  brought  home 
Franklin's  remains  from  the  North  Pole,  and 
thoroughly  surveyed  the  region  about  the 
Southern  one,  then  we  will  climb  the  Moun 
tains  of  the  Moon,  and  so  up  to  Paradise." 

"  I  ask  for  bread,  and  you  give  me  a  stone," 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


115 


murmured  Beatrice,  her  head  drooping  upon 
her  breast. 

"  I  try  to  give  you  common-sense,  but ' 

and  Mr.  Chappelleford  constrained  himself 
to  finish  the  sentence  by  nothing  more  un 
courteous  than  a  smile.  Presently,  however 
he  resumed  in  his  ordinary  tone  : 

"  As  I  was  saying,  Beatrice,  I  am  now  ready 
to  go  to  the  West,  and  think  you  will  enjoy 
going  with  me.  Certainly  your  assistance 
will  be  most  valuable  to' me,  and  important 
to  the  report  I  am  to  make.  You  know  you 
entered  into  those  matters  in  France  and  Switz 
erland  con  am*re,  and  fairly  silenced  the  Pa 
risian  savans,  who  could  not  hold  their  own 
at  all  in  the  arguments  they  tried  to  sustain 
against  you." 

Beatrice  smiled  faintly,  and  raised  her  head 
with  an  air  of  interest. 

"  If  I  can  help  you,  I  am  very  glad  to  go  to 
the  West,"  said  she. 

"  You  can  help  me  very  much.  Bassth- 
waite  was  telling  me  a"  few  days  ago  of  some 
fossil  remains  found  in  a  coal-bed  somewhere 
in  the  western  part  of  Pennsylvania,  which  I 
am  sure  will  interest  you.  By  the  way,  the 
mine  is  owned  and  carried  on  by  a  man  named 
Brent,  who  I  believe  to  be  your  old  lover. 
Do  you  know  whether  he  lives  in  that  part  of 
the  country  ?" 

"  No  ;  I  have  no  idea.  I  have  not  heard  of 
him  since  our  marriage,"  replied  Beatrice  un 
moved. 

"  I  asked  your  uncle,  who  was  prespnt,  and 
he  thought  that  this  was  the  man.  Marston 
Brent,  I  think  he  is  called." 

"  The  Mr.  Brent  I  knew  was  called  Mars- 
ton." 

"  No  doubt  the  same.  Your  uncle  said 
that  some  one  in  Milvor  had  been  inquiring 
this  Brent's  present  abiding-place  and  cir 
cumstances  of  Mrs.  Bliss,  and  the  result  was 
to  ascertain  that  he  lived  in  Pennsylvania, 
and  was  engaged  in  coal-mining." 

"  I  dare  say.  I  wonder  if  he  really  married." 
"That  I  did  not  hear,  but  I  shall  certainly 
go  to  him  for  information  and  assistance  in 
this  fossil  business.  Would  you  like  to  go 
there  with  me,  or  have  you  any  sentimental 
objections  to  meeting  him?" 

"  Not  any  at  all.     On  the  contrary,  I  have 

a  curiosity  to  see  Marston  Brent  again,  and 

find  whether  he  has  changed  as  much  as  I." 

And  Beatrice  drooped  her  head  again  with 

a  weary  sigh. 


Her  husband  looked  keenly  at  her. 

"  Come  then,"  said  he.  "  Even  a  relapse 
into  sentiment  will  be  better  than  this  maud 
lin  condition.  We  will  go  to  visit  Marston 
Brent,  and  his  coal-mine  and  his  wife." 


CHAPTER  XLV. 
TWICE    WARNED . 

HALF  way  up  the  mountain,  one  of  the 
precipitous  wooded  mountains  of  Western 
Pennsylvania,  nature  had  fashioned  a  sun 
ny  plateau,  open  to  the  south,  with  glimpses  of 
mountain  scenery  at  the  east  and  west,  and  am 
ple  shelter  at  the  north.  Here  Marston  Brent 
had  built  his  simple  home,  and  here  lived,  with 
no  thought  of  further  change,  a  grave,  silent 
man,  attentive  to  the  business  which  was 
pouring  unmeasured  wealth  into  his  coffers, 
a  benefactor  to  the  army  of  laborers  with 
their  families  in  his  employ,  a  kind  and  in 
dulgent  head  to  his  little  household,  and  in 
all  else  ag  much  a  hermit  as  if  he  had  lived 
alone  in  the  cave,  a  thousand  feet  nearer  to  the 
crest  of  the  mountain.  Of  himself,  he  never 
spoke,  and  that  must  have  been  a  hardy  ex 
plorer  who  had  ventured  to  intrude  upon  the 
Drivacy  so  strictly  guarded,  so  vigilantly  main 
tained. 

Even   Ruth,  who  had  so  tenderly  nursed 

lim   through  that   long  illness  of  crushed 

)ody  and  wounded  heart,  who  had  seen  him 

n  those  desperate  and  unguarded  momenta 

vhen  the  voice  of  nature,  tried  beyond  endur- 

.nce,  forced  the  barriers  of  pride  and  reserve, 

nd   made   itself   audible  in   the   anguished 

cries  BO  terrible  when  extorted  from  a  strong 

man's  agony — even  Ruth  dared  not  now  ask 

whether  those  wounds  had  healed,  whether 

he  past  was  forgotten,  whether  the  timid 

lower  of  hope  yet  survived  the  storm  tlint 

md  prostrated  so  much  of  what  was  best  and 

weetest  in  the  life  of  the  man  she  reverenced 

and  admired  beyond  all  men. 

It  was  of  this  very  point  that  she  was 
hiuking,  seated  in  a  favorite  niche  in  the 
nountain-side,  with  the  bright  waters  of  the 
reek  shining  far  beneath,  and  a  magnificent 
ountry  of  wood  and  mountain  water,  and 
istant  reaches  of  fertile  intervale,  outspread 
>efore  her.  And  here,  breaking  upon  her 
everie,  came  Paul  Freeman,  now  a  stalwart 
nd  handsome  young  man,  and  well  to  do  in 
he  world,  as  Mr.  Brent's  foreman  and  over- 
eer  well  might  be. 


116 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


Here  lie  came,  seeking  Ruth,  and  here  he 
found  her.  Throwing  himself  upon  the  turf  at 
her  feet,  he  looked  out  for  a  moment  upon  the 
landscape,  glorious  in  a  sunset  of  unbroken 
gold,  and  then  he  turned  and  looked  yet  more 
admiringly  into  the  beautiful  face  of  the 
young  girl. 

"  Ruthie !" 

"  Well,  Paul  r 

"  You  promised  me  an  answer  to-night." 

"I  know  it,  and  1  came  out  here  to  find  it, 
Paul,  but  I  cannot." 

"  Cannot  tell  whether  you  hate  me  who 
have  loved  you  all  your  life  ?" 


"  A  favorite  niche  in  the  mountain-side." 

"  I  know  I  do  not  hate  you— but — — " 
"  But  you  are  not  sure  that  you  love  me  ?" 
"  No,  not  sure  in  the  way  you  mean." 
"  Look  at  here,  Ruth,  I  know  what  it  all 
means,  even  better  than  you  do.     You  love 
some  one  else  better." 

"  Some  one  else,  Paul  ?"  asked  the  young 
girl,  crimsoning  all  over  her  pale  face. 

"Yes,  some  one  whom  you  have  always  ad 
mired  and  looked  up  to,  and  believed  in,  so 
that  you  cannot  at  this  moment  fairly  tell 
whether  there  is  room  for  any  one  else  in 
your  heart  or  not.  And  all  the  while,  you 


know  that  he  does  not  care  for  you,  or  any 
woman  in  the  way  of  love  and  marriage,  and 
perhaps  never  will  again.  You  know  it,  Ruth, 
and  yet  you  turn  away  from  an  honest  love 
that  has  always  been  faithful  to  you  since 
you  were  a  poor  little  runaway  child " 

"Paul,  Paul!" 

"  Why,  Ruthie,  I  don't  think  any  the  worse 
of  you  for  that,  nor  I  don't  mean  to  throw  it 
in  your  face  ;  only  that  was  what  first  drew  me 
close  to  you,  and  I  always  remember  it  when 
I  get  to  thinking  of  how  much  I  love  you. 
And  though  you  never  have  told,  and  I  never 
have  known,  the  right  of  that  matter,  I  never 
Lave  seen  the  minute  yet  when  I  doubted 
that  you  were  as  innocent  as  I  of  any  blame 
whatever,  from  the  first  to  the  last  of  it." 

"  Oh !  I  wish  I  knew,  I  wish  I  knew " 

murmured  Ruth  bitterly,  as  she  hid  her  face 
in  her  hands  and  bowed  it  upon  her  lap. 

'"  Wish  you  knew  what,  Ruthie  ?"  asked 
Paul  tenderly. 

'•  Whether  Mr.  Brent  would  say  as  much 
as  that  for  me." 

"  Oh !"  And  Paul  withdrew  the  hand  he 
had  tenderly  laid  upon  that  bowed  head,  and 
sat  looking  moodily  out  upon  the  sunset. 

A  hasty  step  approached,  and  Brent's  voice 
was  heard  from  the  path  below,  calling  : 

"  Ruth  !     Are  you  there  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir."  And  springing  to  her  feet,  the 
girl  hastily  obeyed  the  summons,  followed 
more  slowly  by  Paul. 

They  found  Brent  awaiting  them,  and  look 
ing  pale  and  anxious,  aa  he  had  not  looked  in 
years.  He  held  a  letter  in  his  hand,  and  ner 
vously  folded  it  while  he  spoke  : 

"  Ruth,  we  are  to  have  company,  and  you 
must  make  preparation.  Mr.  Chappelleford 
and  his  wife  wish  to  visit  the  Northern  Mine, 
and  will  stay  with  us  some  days.  They  will 
be  here — perhaps  to-morrow  morning — per 
haps  not  till  afternoon.  You  can  arrange  with 
Matilda  about  accommodation,  I  suppose." 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  suppose  so,"  said  Ruth  in  a  sti 
fled  voice,  and,  after  a  moment's  hesitation, 
she  passed  Brent,  and  rapidly  descended  the 
path  toward  the  house. 

Brent,  about  to  follow,  was  detained  by 
Paul :  "  May  I  speak  to  you  a  moment,  sir  ?" 

"  What  is  it,  Freeman  ?" 

"I  want  to  ask  you  a  plain  question,  sir, 
and  I  want  a  plain  answer — not  as  from  em 
ployer  to  employe,  but  as  from  man  to  man. 
Shall  I  have  it  ?" 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


117 


"  You  shall  have  it,  Freeman."  And  Mr. 
Brent,  thrusting  the  letter  into  his  breast-pock 
et,  folded  his  arms,  and  leaning  against  the 
boulder  beside  him,  turned  an  attentive  face  to 
ward  his  companion.  The  last  rays  of  the 
Betting  sun  lighted  the  scene,  and  threw  into 
bold  relief  the  faces  and  forms  of  the  two  men, 
each  a  type  of  his  class,  each  striking  in  ap 
pearance,  each  worthy  of  attention,  perhaps 
of  admiration. 

Brent  represented  the  Saxon  element,  al 
most  unmingled  with  other  blood.  Tall, 
deep-chested,  broad-shouldered,  stalwart  in 
every  proportion,  with  a  round  and  somewhat 
massive  head,  well  set  back,  a  proud  and  dig 
nified  bearing,  a  steadfast  and  perhaps  immo 
bile  expression  of  face,  crisp  curling  hair  and 
beard  of  reddish  brown,  keen  blue  eyes,  and 
a  mouth  affectionate  or  stern,  as  occasion  war 
ranted. 

So  stood  Marston  Brent,  and  confronting 
him,  the  slighter,  more  flexible,  more  elegant 
form  of  his  workman  and  rival,  from  whose 
passionate,  swarthy  face,  glowing  dark  eyes, 
and  stormy  mien,  the  sunlight  seemed  to 
glance  off  repelled,  leaving  the  shadows  deep 
ened,  and  the  lights  untouched.  No  man's 
son  was  Paul  Freeman,  and  from  no  distinct 
race  had  he  sprung,  but  yet  he  was  a  repre 
sentative  man,  for  embodied  in  his  sinewy 
frame  was  the  haughty,  progressive,  ambi 
tious  spirit  of  the  new  world,  the  element  of 
conquest  and  of  encroachment,  the  ardor  to 
pursue,  the  determination  to  possess,  the  will 
to  retain. 

Such  men  as  he  to  cross  the  ocean  and  dis 
cover  the  new  continent,  and  wrest  its  gold 
and  jewels  from  hapless  savages  ;  such  men 
as  Brent  to  follow  with  their  household  goods, 
and  reclaim  the  wilderness,  and  endure  the 
hardships  of  the  pioneer,  forcing  the  savage 
to  the  wall — not  by  sudden  raids  and  ruthless 
torture,  but  by  steady,  persistent,  and  unre 
lenting  effort,  the  sword  in  one  hand,  and  the 
law  in  the  other,  until  the  land  lay  at  his 
feet — not  desolated,  scattered,  and  affrighted, 
but  a  happy,  peaceful  home  for  him  and  his, 
with  a  church  on  every  hill,  and  a  school- 
Louse  at  every  corner.  But  Brent  is  saying  : 

"You  shall  have  your  answer,  Freeman. 
What  is  the  question?" 

"  Just  this  :   Do  you  want  to  marry  Ruth  ?" 

"  I  marry  Ruth !  The  idea  has  never  crossed 
my  mind." 

"  That  is  not  the  answer  you  promised  me, 


sir.  If  you  have  not  thought  of  it  before, 
will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  think  now  ?  I  can 
wait." 

And  Freeman  walked  away  a  few  steps 
and  seated  himself  deliberately.  Brent 
looked  at  him  with  troubled  eyes,  which  pres 
ently  wandered  to  the  wide  landscape  beyond, 
while  a  sombre  and  introspective  expression 
settled  upon  his  face.  At  last  he  spoke. 

"Paul,  I  cannot  give  you  the  answer  you 
ask,  to-night.  You  must  explain  yourself 
also  to  some  extent.  Why  should  you  men 
tion  my  marrying  Ruth  ?" 

"  Because,  sir,  if  you  don't  mean  to,  it  would 
be  no  more  than  fair  to  others  that  you  should 
let  her  understand  so." 

"  To  others  ?    To  you  ?" 

"  Well,  yes  ;  I  love  her,  and  I  know  my 
own  mind,  as  I  have  known  it  for  years,  about 
wanting  to  marry  her." 

"  Why  don't  you  do  it  then  ?"  asked  Brent 
bluntly. 

"  Because,  sir,  if  you  must  be  told  it  plainly, 
she  loves  another  man,  and  that  man  is  you." 

"  Did  she  say  so,  Freeman  ?" 

"  Certainly  not,  sir — what  girl  would  say 
such  a  thing  ?  But  I  know  it,  and  have 
known  it  for  long.  I  know  too,  sir,  that  you 
have  always  loved  another  woman,  and 
though  she's  married  and  out  of  your  reach, 
I  don't  know  why  that  should  make  you  want 
my  poor  little  Ruth.  It  seems  hard  enough, 
Mr.  Brent,  that  you  should  have  for  nothing, 
and  without  even  wanting  it,  what  I  would 
give  ten  years  of  my  life  to  gain,  and  can't." 

"  Poor  boy !  His  ewe-lamb,"  muttered 
Brent,  casting  a  friendly  and  compassionate 
glance  upon  his  rival,  who  returned  it  with 
one  of  almost  defiance. 

"  If  you  do  not  want  her,  sir,  it  would  be 
easy  enough  to  show  it,  and  a  kindness  in 
the  end,  even  to  her." 

"  But  if  your  supposition  is  correct,  and  she 
loves  me,  Paul,  she  cannot  love  you  at  any 
rate  ;  and  I  think  she  is  too  much  a  woman  to 
marry  one  man,  loving  another." 

'  Leave  that  to  her  and  to  me,  sir,  if  you 
please.  Only  say  that  you  do  not  wish  or 
intend  to  marry  her,"  said  Freeman,  in  so 
hard  and  defiant  a  manner  that  Brent  replied 
coldly  : 

"  This  is  hardly  the  tone  for  a  discussion 
between  us  two,  Paul  Freeman.  Let  the 
question  rest  for  a  few  days  until  I  have  time 
to  consider  it,  and  I  will  answer  you  definitely. 


118 


THE   SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


Perhaps  I  shall  first  speak  to  Ruth  upon  the 
subject." 

"  And  perhaps  to  Mrs.  Chappelleford,"  mut 
tered  Freeman,  turning  away,  and  rapidly 
ascending  the  hill. 

The  words  reached  Brent's  ear,  and  with  a 
quick  flush  of  anger  mounting  to  his  face,  he 
made  a  step  in  pursuit,  but  then  restrained 
himself,  and  turned  in  the  opposite  direction. 

"  He  is  smarting  under  a  great  disappoint 
ment,  and  it  may  be  overlooked,"  muttered  he, 
striding  down  the  path.  "  But  if  Ruth  loves 
me — it  might  be  well  to  speak  to  her  to-night 

before coward  that  I  am,  shall  I  need  to 

defend  myself  behind  any  other  shield  than 
honor,  from  love  of  another  man's  wife  ?  And 
yet,  Beatrice,  Beatrice,  you  should  not  have 
consented  to  try  me  thus  !" 

Entering  the  house,  he  was  met  by  Zilpah, 
•whose  duties  in  these  days  had  become  merely 
nominal,  but  her  privileges  very  positive. 

"  What's  this,  Mr.  Marston  ?  Ruth  says, 
Beatrice  Wansted  that  was  is  coming  to  see 
you.  Is  it  so  ?" 

"  Yes,  Zilpah.  Her  husband,  Mr.  Chappelle 
ford,  is  coming,  and  she  accompanies  him. 
They  are  going  to  the  West  upon  some  scien 
tific  errand." 

"  What  sort  of  an  errand  ?  But  never 
mind  what  name  she  puts  to  it.  Marston 
Brent,  be  warned  in  time,  for  the  devil  has 
laid  a  trap  for  you.  Go  in  there,  and  comfort 
Ruth,  who  is  crying  her  heart  out  for  love  of 
you.  Go!" 

"  You  too !"  muttered  Brent,  but  instead  of 
entering  the  house,  he  turned  away,  and 
plunged  into  the  darkening  forest. 


CHAPTER  XL VI. 
ASLEEP    OR    DEAD? 

THE  next  day,  in  the  golden  glory  of  such 
another  sunset,  Marston  Brent,  with  uncov 
ered  head  and  grave,  courteous  face,  stood  be 
side  a  carriage  which  had  just  toiled  up  the 
mountain-road  to  the  plateau  where  stood  his 
house. 

"  Mrs.  Chappelleford !  I  am  very  glad  to 
see  you,"  said  he,  extending  his  hand  to  the 
elegant  woman,  who  threw  back  her  veil  and 
looked  scrutinizingly  into  his  face  as  she  re 
plied  : 

"  And  I  you,  Mr.  Brent.  You  are  scarcely 
changed  in  all  these  years.  Let  me  present 
my  husband,  Mr.  Chappelleford." 


The  host  made  courteous  recognition  of  the 
introduction,  and  the  guest  replied  : 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Brent ;  and  before  enter 
ing  your  house  I  should  apologize  for  taking 
it  by  storm  in  this  manner.  Nothing  but  my 
anxiety  to  see  the  curious  remains  of  which  I 
wrote,  and  Mrs.  Chappelleford's  desire  to  meet 
an  old  friend,  can  excuse  us." 

"  No  excuse  is  needed,  sir.  In  this  new 
country,  hospitality  is  more  an  indulgence 
than  a  duty.  It  is  I  who  am  obliged  to  you 
and  Mrs.  Chappelleford  for  the  honor  you  do 
me." 

"  And  what  a  glorious  situation  you  have 
found  here,  Mr.  Brent,"  said  the  lady,  linger 
ing  upon  the  little  porch,  and  glancing  ad 
miringly  over  the  wide  view  glittering  and 
smiling  in  the  sunset  light.  "  Such  scenery 
makes  ours  at  home  seem  very  tame." 

"  Yes,  Ironstone  Mountain  is  somewhat 
brighter  than  Moloch,"  said  Brent  simply. 

"  And  somewhat  more  valuable,"  said  Mr. 
Chappelleford  smiling. 

"  To  one's  pocket — yes,"  replied  Brent. 

"  What,  have  you  the  mal-du-pays,  and  do 
you  regret  New-England  and  Milvor  ?"  asked 
Beatrice  a  little  incredulously. 

"  I  regret  nothing  that  I  have  left  behind 
me,  Mrs.  Chappelleford.  The  life  of  a  pioneer 
must  not  be  retrospective,  if  he  is  to  retain 
energy  and  interest." 

"  Well  spoken,  Mr.  Brent,"  said  the  philos 
opher  heartily.  "I  like  to  see  a  man  not 
only  possess  the  qualifications  for  his  place, 
but  understand  them,  and  cling  to  them  vol 
untarily." 

"  And  all  regrets,  all  hopes  are  so  idle," 
said  the  lady  softly,  as  she  turned  to  enter  the 
house. 

In  the  parlor,  beside  the  prettily-laid  tea- 
table,  stood  a  slender,  fair-faced  girl,  whom 
Brent  simply  introduced  as  Ruth,  and  whom 
the  guests  consequently  could  greet  only  as 
Miss  Ruth,  quietly  wondering  the  while  what 
her  position  in  the  house  could  be,  and  if  she 
possessed  no  name,  or  relationship  to  Brent, 
by  which  he  could  have  designated  her. 

"  It  cannot  be  his  wife,"  thought  Beatrice, 
as  the  object  of  her  wonder  took  the  head  of 
the  table.  "  And  yet " 

"  Will  you  have  tea  or  chocolate,  Mrs.  Chap 
pelleford  ?"  asked  the  hostess. 

And  Beatrice,  quick  at  distinguishing  semi 
tones  of  expression,  felt  that  through  this 
sweet ,  low  voice  sharply  vibrated  something 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN 


119 


of  pain,  something  of  enmity  to  herself.  She 
wondered  and  waited,  sipping  her  tea  mean 
time,  and  listening  to  the  clear,  forcible  lan 
guage  in  which  Brent  replied  to  Mr.  Chap- 
pelleford's  scientific  inquiries,  and  the  keen 
apothegms  which  the  cynical  philosopher 
never  long  restrained. 

The  next  morning,  Brent  took  Mr.  Chap- 
pelleford  about  his  property,  and  into  the 
great  smelting-house  in  the  valley  where  the 
iron  mined  by  him  was  prepared  for  market. 

Beatrice,  weary  with  her  journey,  preferred 
remaining  in  the  house,  and  drawing  a  deep- 
cushioned  chair  to  the  window,  sat  looking 
admiringly  over  the  landscape,  and  trying  to 
calculate  its  influences  upon  a  man  like 
Brent. 

The  door  softly  opened  and  closed,  admit 
ting  Ruth,  who,  with  her  little  work-basket  in 
her  hand,  came  to  entertain,  as  a  duty,  the 
guest  of  the  house  left  in  her  charge. 

Mrs.  Chappelleford  looked  at  her  smilingly. 

"  I  am  admiring  this  view,  Miss  Ruth ;  I 
suppose  it  is  very  familiar  to  you." 

"  Yes,  ma'am.  We  have  lived  here  now 
more  than  three  years." 

"  You  came  then  with  Mr.  Brent  ?  I  thought 
perhaps  you  had  grown  up  among  these  moun 
tains." 

"  No,  ma'am.  I  came  with  Mr.  Brent," 
said  Ruth,  coloring  slightly,  and  bending  over 
her  work. 

"  Probably  you  can  tell  me,  then,  whether 
there  was  any  truth  in  the  report  of  Mr. 
Brent's  marriage  some  years  since.  I  did  not 
like  to  ask  him,  thinking  perhaps  Mrs.  Brent 
might  have  died,  or " 

"  She  never  lived  ;  he  was  never  married," 
exclaimed  Ruth  almost  indignantly,  and  then, 
with  a  great  throb  of  pity,  wonder,  terror,  she 
hastily  asked  :  "  O  Mrs.  Chappelleford  !  did 
you  believe  that  ?" 

"  Believe  Mr.  Brent  to  be  married  ?  Yes,  I 
hoped  that  he  was,"  said  Beatrice,  sweeping 
one  keen,  bright  glance  over  the  girl's  glowing 
face. 

"  Hoped  ?    Why,  how  could " 

And  Ruth  suddenly  paused,  and  bent  her 
head  lower  and  lower,  until  the  calm,  proud 
eyes  so  fixedly  watching  her  saw  only  the 
soft  brown  hair  coiled  in  rich  masses  at  the 
top  of  the  head. 

"  And  he  was  never  married  at  all  then  ? 
But  he  was  engaged  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Chappelle 
ford  at  length. 


"No,  ma'am,  never,"  replied  the  girl  with 
out  looking  up. 

"  That  is  strange.  We  all  heard  so  at  Mil- 
vor,"  said  Beatrice  meditatively,  but  with  so 
little  emotion  that  Ruth  forgot  her  own  im 
prudence  and  looked  wonderingly  up.  Beatrice 
read  the  look  and  smiled. 

"  My  dear,"  said  she,  "you  know  something 
of  my  early  history,  I  perceive,  and  per  apa 
some  day  I  will  explain  what  puzzles  you  so 
sorely.  Tell  me  now,  what  do  you  tliink  of 
Mr.  Brent,  yourself?" 

"  I  think,  ma'am,  that  he  is — that  I  should 
— that — that — I  think,  ma'am,  he  is  a  very, 
a  very  nice  gentleman." 

"Yes,  and  so  do  I,"  replied  Mrs.  Chappelle 
ford  without  a  smile.  "  And  how  long  have 
you  known  him  ?'' 

"  About  six  years,  ma'am." 

"  It  is  about  six  years  since  he  left  Milvor," 
said  Beatrice  quietly. 

"  Yes,  ma'am.  I  came  with  him  and  Paul 
Freeman  from  a  town  near  Milvor,  and  have 
been  with  him.  ever  since." 

"  And  cannot  you  at  all  understand  the  re 
port  that  Mr.  Brent  was  about  to  be  married  'f 
asked  Beatrice,  smiling  a  little  sarcastically. 

"  No,  ma'am.  There  never  has  been  any 
woman  in  the  family  but  old  Zilpah  and  Ma 
tilda  Jennings,  since  wo  came  here,  and  me." 

"  And  you,  did  you  say '("  pursued  Mrs. 
Chappelleford,  presuming  a  little,  as  she  felt 
with  shame,  upon  her  position  and  self  com 
mand,  to  draw  this  child's  secret  from  her 
lips.  But  she  had  her  reward,  for  Ruth,  rais 
ing  a  quivering  glowing  face  to  hers,  cried  in 
a  tone  of  genuine  alarm  and  surprise  : 

"  Me,  madam  !  Oh !  no,  he  never  thought 
of  me  ;  how  could  he  ?  Don't  say  such  a 
thing  to  him." 

"  Certainly  not,  my  dear.  But  why  should 
he  not  think  of  it  ?  I  wish  he  would." 

"You  wish  he  would  !  Why,  Mrs.  Chap 
pelleford,  he  never  has  forgotten  you,  and  how 
could  he  love  any  one  like  me  afterward  ?" 

"  Forgotten  me !  Why  do  you  say  that, 
Ruth  ?  Are  you  Mr.  Brent's  confidante  then  ?" 
asked  Mrs.  Chappelleford  very  coldly. 

"  No,  indeed,  ma'am,  he  is  not  the  man  to 
tell  such  things  to  any  one,"  replied  Ruth  in 
dignantly.  "  He  has  never  spoken  your  name 
to  me  more  than  half  a  dozen  times  in  his 
life,  and  then  only  when  he  was  so  desperate 
at  the  news  of  your  marriage  that  he  had  to 
speak  or  go  crazy,  or  kill  himself,  and  then 


120 


THE   SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


when  lie  got  crushed  with  the  tree,  and  one 
night  thought  that  he  was  dying,  he  gave 
me  a  message  for  you,  but  afterward  ho  tolc 
me  to  forget  it." 

"  And  you  forgot  it  1" 
"  No,   ma'am,  I   could   not   forget   it,  but  ] 
•will  never  repeat  it." 

"  I  do  not  ask  you  to  do  so,  Ruth.  But  what 
are  those  events  of  which  you  speak  ?  When 
did  Mr.  Brent  hear  of  my  marriage,  and  when 
was  he  crushed  by  a  tree,  and  so  near  to  death, 
as  you  say  ?" 

"  Why,  did  you  never  hear  of  that,  ma'am  ?  " 
And  then  Ruth,  her  hands  clasped  upon  her 
knee,  her  eyes  downcast,  as  if  she  read  the 
story  from  a  visible  page,  repeated  the  events 
we  know  already — describing  even  better  than 
she,  in  her  innocence,  could  understand  Brent's 
terrible  anguish  in  learning  of  the  unfaithful 
ness  of  the  woman  to  whom  his  whole  life 
clung,  in  spite  of  their  estrangement — his  reck 
less  behavior  upon  that  day,  the  accident  which 
had  so  nearly  cost  him  his  life,  and  the  linger 
ing  illness  which  ensued,  through  which  only 
the  devotion  of  his  nurse  and  constant  attend 
ant  had  brought  him  alive. 

Mrs.  Chappelleford,  leaning  hack  in  the 
cushioned  chair,  her  eyes  riveted  upon  the  far 
horizon  line,  one  white  hand  supporting  her 
chin,  the  other  toying  idly  with  her  watch- 
chain,  listened  to  all  this  recital  in  the  pro- 
foundest  silence.  When  it  was  finished,  she 
said  in  her  soft,  sonorous  tones  : 

"  Thank  you  very  much.  Your  story  inter 
ests  me  extremely,  and  it  is  something  to  be 
interested  for  half  an  hour." 

Ruth  turned  and  stared  into  the  face  of  her 
auditor  with  undisguised  amazement.  A  feel 
ing  of  delicacy  had  hitherto  restrained  her 
from  even  a  glance. 

"O  Mrs.  Chappelleford!  Don't  you  care 
at  all,  then  ?"  exclaimed  she  with  quite  invol 
untary  horror. 

Beatrice  smiled  sadly. 

"  You  think  me  very  heartless,  do  you  not  ? 
But,  Ruth,  it  is  so  long  since  I  left  all  this  be 
hind  me,  all  this  heart-break  and  repining 
and  emotion  of  every  sort,  that  your  story  can 
not  even  rouse  their  echoes.  Love  is  the  oc 
cupation  of  very  young,  or  very  thoughtless, 
or  very  unintellectual  persons.  Mr.  Brent 
himself,  I  dare  say,  would  smile  to-day  at 
these  sorrows  which  to  you  seem  still  so  real. 
I  am  interested  in  the  story,  as  I  said,  for  Mr. 
Brent  was  once  a  very  dear  friend  of  mine, 


and  I  like  to  know  what  agencies  have  helped 
to  build  up  his  character.  It  was  all  neces 
sary,  I  dare  say,  to  develop  his  best  qualities. 
He  would  not  regret  it,  nor  should  we." 

"  And  you  don't  care  a  bit  for  him,  nor  think 
that  he  cares  foryou  1"  asked  Ruth,  all  amaze 
ment. 

Mrs.  Chappelleford  answered  only  by  a  su 
perb  smile  of  self-reliance,  of  compassion  for 
the  inexperience  of  her  companion,  of  dismis 
sal,  and  Ruth,  murmuring  some  excuse,  rose 
and  left  the  room,  half  indignant,  half  be 
wildered. 

Beatrice  sat  still,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
distant  mountains,  glittering  now  with  noon 
day  sunshine. 

"  So  it  was  all  a  mistake,"  said  she  at  last. 
"  Well,  what  matter  now  '?  Fate  so  willed  it. 
Mr.  Chappelleford  would  tell  me,  and  we  poor 
puppets  could  not  resist.  I  wonder  what 
view  Marston  would  take  of  it  ?" 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 
THE  BLUEBEARD  CLOSET. 

THE  fossil  remains  of  Ironstone  Mountain 
proved  even  more  interesting  to  Mr.  Chap 
pelleford  than  he  had  expected,  and  as  Brent's 
cooperation  in  his  researches  and  his  hospi 
tality  to  both  his  guests  were  evidently  a 
great  pleasure  to  himself  as  well  as  to  them, 
the  period  of  their  visit  was  extended  day  af 
ter  day,  until  it  had  reached  nearly  three 
weeks.  Mr.  Chappelleford  was  now  busily 
ngaged  in  making  casts  of  some  of  the  most 
urious  of  the  antediluvian  relics  which  he 
had  discovered,  and  kept  both  himself  and  the 
workmen  Brent  had  placed  at  his  disposal  ac 
tively  employed.  Brent  helped  him  when 
necessary,  and  when  he  found  that  the  samn1, 
preferred  solitude,  or  the  companionship  only 
of  the  laborers,  he  devoted  himself  to  enter 
taining  Mrs.  Chappelleford,  who,  either  upon 
bot  or  mounted  upon  Ruth's  active  little 
pony,  amused  herself  by  exploring  the  moun 
tain-passes,  points  of  view,  and  curious  freaks 
of  nature,  with  which  the  region  abounded, 
tn  some  of  these  excursions,  she  was  escorted 
jy  her  husband — sometimes,  when  he  and 
Brent  were  engaged,  by  Paul  Freeman,  with 
whom  she  liked  to  talk  of  old  Milvor  days, 
and  sometimes  by  her  host  only. 

In  the  beginning  <>f  this  intimate  associa- 
ion,  Beatrice  had  vigilantly,  although  most 
guardedly,  watched  every  look,  word,  or  iuti- 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


121 


mation  of  feeling  in  her  companion,  deter 
mined  to  repress  all  sentiment,  or  even  allu 
sion,  to  the  past,  with  unsparing  scorn.  But 
she  soon  found  she  had  no  occasion  for  her 
armor.  Brent  —  always  courteous,  always 
frank  and  cheerful,  but  never  familiar,  never 
retrospective,  never  even  silent  and  preoccu 
pied —  appeared  so  little  like  a  despondent 
lover,  so  little  like  the  despairing  and  desper 
ate  man  whom  Ruth  had  pictured,  that  Mrs. 
Chappelleford  herself  fell  more  and  more  often 
into  reverie  in  his  presence,  recalling  the 
old  tender  scenes  that  had  passed  between 


"  The.  crest  of  Ironstone." 

them,  recalling  the  constancy,  the  tenderness 
of  his  nature  as  she  had  known  him,  wonder 
ing  if  indeed  he  could  have  so  completely 
changed,  or  if  this  were  only  acting,  until  at 
length  the  desire  to  penetrate  bene  ith  that 
calm  and  debonair  exterior,  to  the  Bluebeard 
chamber  far  within  became  almost  irresistible, 
and  from  dreading  all  allusion  to  the  past, 
avoiding  all  questions  of  sentiment  or  person 
ality,  she  came  to  seeking  eagerly  for  the  oppor 
tunity  of  introducing  them,  and  of  leading  the 
conversation,  when  alone  with  Brent,  to  a  con 
fidential  turn. 


But  here,  to  her  amazement  and  mortifica 
tion,  she  found  herself  foiled  so  quietly,  and 
apparently  so  unconsciously,  that  at  first  she 
attributed  her  discomfiture  to  accident  than  to 
want  of  comprehension,  and  finally  to  a  too 
fastidious  honor.  But  in  proportion  to  the  diffi 
culty  of  discovering  the  secret  feelings  of  this 
heart  she  had  so  dreaded  to  still  find  her  own, 
Beatrice  felt  a  growing  desire  to  penetrate 
this  smooth  but  impervious  veil,  to  force  at 
least  confession  of  something  hidden,  and  sat 
isfy  herself  that  she  had  not  been  dreaming 
when  she  believed  that  Brent  had  once  loved 
her  truly. 

"Only  let  me  once  know  what  he  really 
feels,  and  I  am  satisfied  forever,"  said  she  to 
herself,  and  began  to  search  for  the  key  to 
that  locked  door. 

"  Ruth  was  telling  me  of  that  terrible  injury 
you  sustained  in  the  woods,"  said  she  one 
day,  as  the  two  slowly  climbed  the  crest  of 
Ironstone,  and  paused  to  look  at  the  wonderful 
panorama  below. 

"  Yes,  it  was  rather  severe  at  the  time.  Do 
you  see  that  blue  ribbon  glittering  among  the 
hills,  Mrs.  Chappelleford  ?  That  is  the  Alle- 
ghany." 

"  Indeed.  Yes,  I  see  it  quite  plainly.  But 
tell  me  of  that  time  in  the  woods,  Marston. 
Ruth  says  you  were  near  dying,  and  very  low 
in  spirits,  too." 

"  Did  she  tell  you  how  I  was  cured  ?" 

"  By  her  tender  care,  I  should  think,  from 
her  artless  story." 

"  By  that  certainly  ;  but  also  by  brandy, 
sugar,  and  salt-pork.  I  must  tell  you  about 
it." 

And  Beatrice  found  herself  obliged  to  listen 
with  polite  attention  to  a  minute  account  of  the 
novel  medical  treatment  prescribed  by  Richard, 
with  the  doctor's  indignation,  and  old  Zil pah's 
incredulity. 

"When  the  story  was  ended,  Beatrice  sat 
silent  and  a  little  offended.  Reserve  was 
very  well,  but  this  was  rudeness.  At  last  she 
said: 

"  I  find  you  very  much  changed,  Mr.  Brent." 

"  That  is  natural,  considering  the  laborious 
and  exposed  life  I  have  led  here  and  in  the 
woods.  Why,  Mrs.  Chappelleford,  I  have  not 
been  idle,  when  I  was  able  to  work,  so  many 
hours  in  five  years  as  I  have  in  the  last  three 
weeks." 

"  And  do  you  regret  the  occasion  ?"  asked 
Beatrice,  turning  her  head,  "with  eyes  of 


122 


THE   SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


sumptuous  expectation  fixt "  upon  the  face  of 
her  sometime  lover,  who  promptly  answered : 

"  No,  indeed.  It  has  been  a  great  treat  to 
me  to  meet  once  more  persons  of  cultivation 
and " 

"  Marston  Brent,  why  do  you  perpetually 
evade  me  thus  ?"  cried  Beatrice,  with  a  touch 
of  her  old  petulant  humor.  "  It  is  no  compli 
ment  to  me  to  avoid  so  persistently  a  subject 
upon  which  I  am  willing  to  speak.  Are  you 
afraid  for  yourself  or  me  ?" 

"  For  neither,  Mrs.  Chappelleford,"  said 
Brent  in  a  low  voice,  while  the  expression  of 
his  face  changed  so  suddenly  that  Beatrice 
felt  her  heart  leap  for  joy.  At  last  she  had 
conquered — at  last  he  mixst  speak,  and  she 
would  be  satisfied  once  for  all. 

"  Then  why  do  you  so  pointedly  avoid  the 
past?"  asked  she,  more  graciously.  "That  it 
is  quite  past  we  neither  of  us  doubt,  and  why 
should  we  not  discuss  it  as  we  would  the 
story  of  Hero  and  Leander,  or  Romeo  and 
Juliet?" 

"  We  will,  if  you  wish  it,"  replied  Brent, 
and  his  mouth  grew  white,  and  his  eyes  reso 
lute,  as  if  he  had  just  signified  his  assent  to 
the  torture,  resolving  all  the  while  that  not 
its  fiercest  extremity  should  extort  confession 
or  complaint  from  his  lips. 

Beatrice,  a  little  startled  at  her  own  success, 
eat  silent  for  a  moment,  but  finally  found 
voice  to  say  :• 

"I  have  one  confession  to  make,  Marston. 
It  was  I  who  sent  you  the  paper  with  the  an 
nouncement  of  my  marriage." 

"  Why  do  you  call  it  a  confession  ?  Did  you 
mean  to  wound  me?" 

"  Yes,  I  am  afraid  I  did.  Can  you  forgive 
me?" 

"  Yes,  I  forgive  you  freely." 

"  Could  you  have  forgiven  me  before  the 
wound  was  quite  healed  ?" 

"  I  never  felt  resentment." 

The  answer  did  not  satisfy  her,  and  she  put 
the  question  in  a  different  form  : 

"  You  are  content  now,  Marston  ?" 

"  I  am  content — yes." 

"And  happy?  You  no  longer  remember 
me?" 

"  I  have  not  so  many  new  friends  that  I 
should  forget  the  old  ones  very  easily." 

'•  O  Marston !  you  do  not  tell  me  what  I 
want  to  know.  Why  will  not  you  speak  out 
for  once  ?" 

"  What  do  you  wish  to  know  ?" 


"  Do  you — Marston,  do  you  remember — do 
you — love  me  still  ?" 

She  had  asked  it,  and  sat  aghast.  The  si 
lence  that  befell  seemed  to  her  filled  with  ac 
cusing  voices  —  the  air  with  scornful  eyes. 
She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  sat 
ashamed  and  silent. 

At  last  he  spoke,  in  a  voice  so  low  and  stern 
that  she  hardly  recognized  it. 

"  Mrs.  Chappelleford,  that  is  a  question  you 
have  no  right  to  ask,  or  I  to  answer.  Let  us 
forget  it." 

"  You  find  it  very  easy  to  forget,"  said  Be 
atrice  bitterly,  and  without  raising  her  head. 

"  So  be  it,"  replied  Brent  in  the  same  tone. 

"  But,  Marston,  before  we  leave  the  subject, 
I  wish  to  tell  you  that  I  heard  you  were  about 
to  marry.  I  never  should  have  been  married 
myself  if  I  had  not  thought " 

"Hush,  Beatrice  —  hush  I  Whatever  may 
be  now,  you  once  were  my  ideal  of  woman 
hood.  Do  not  profane  the  sacred  memories 
which  alone  are  left  to  me  by  representing 
yourself  as  marrying  from  other  motive  than 
the  highest,  or  as  bearing  toward  your  hus 
band  to-day  less  than  an  entire  love  and  con 
fidence.  You  have  made  this  inquiry  into  my 
life,  past  and  present,  partly  from  the  kind  in 
terest  of  an  old  friendship — partly  in  a  spirit 
of  psychological  research.  Here  let  it  rest." 

"  But,  O  Marston !  help  me,  advise  me, 
comfort  me !  I  thought  I  was  content,  and  I 
find  myself  most  miserable.  I  thought  my 
heart  was  dead ;  and  already  the  new  life 
coursing  through  it  stings  me  with  anguish 
intolerable.  Marston,  I  have  slept  through 
these  five  long  years,  and  now  I  begin  to  waken. 
What  shall  I  do  ?  How  shall  I  comfort  myself 
in  my  despair?" 

She  covered  her  face,  and  wept  passionately. 
Brent,  pale  and  agitated,  looked  at  her  loving 
ly  for  a  moment ;  then  turning  half  away, 
said  solemnly  : 

"  You  cannot  comfort  yourself,  nor  can  I 
comfort  you.  There  is  one  Comforter,  and 
but  one  —  His  name  is  Christ  :  go  to  Him. 
Forgive  me  for  yielding  so  rashly  and  so 
weakly  to  your  request  for  open  speech  upon 
this  subject.  I  should  have  been  strong  for 
both  of  us.  It  is  my  fault — only  mine.  Come, 
we  will  go  home." 

And  without  another  word,  he  led  the  way 
swiftly  and  steadily  down  the  mountain-path, 
where  already  slept  the  purple  shadows  of  the 
night,  the  misty  wraith  of  the  departed  day. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


RUTH'S  OGRE. 

SHE  had  never  heard  of  OZnone,  this  poor 
little  Ruth,  "  mournful  (Enone  wandering 
forlorn "  upon  the  hills,  nor  could  she  so 
melodiously  phrase  her  grief,  and  yet  the 
burden  of  her  song  in  those  weary  days,  that 
sad,  sad  song  without  words,  sung  in  her 
secret  heart,  was  like  the  nymph's  lament  • 

"  My  eyes  are  full  of  tears,  my  heart  of  love, 
My  heart  is  breaking,  and  my  eyes  are  dim, 
And  I  am  all  aweary  of  my  life." 

For  Brent,  who,  if  never  a  lover,  had  always 
been  the  kindest  of  friends  and  companions, 
ever  ready  to  sympathize,  instruct,  or  counsel, 
now  found  but  little  time  even  to  notice  the 
poor  child,  giving  all  his  leisure  to  his  guests, 
and  employing  himself  for  the  remainder  with 
almost  desperate  energy  about  his  business. 
And  Paul,  too,  held  aloof — Paul,  whose  devo 
tion,  hardly  valued  while  it  was  so  freely  and 
constantly  bestowed,  became  of  sudden  im 
portance  now  that  it  was  withdrawn. 

"  Nobody  loves  me,  nobody  cares  for  me, 
and  why  should  I  want  to  live  ?  I  will  throw 
myself  down  the  old  pit-hole,  and  make  an 
end  of  it,"  moaned  Ruth,  and  crept  stealthily 
out  of  the  house  and  into  the  woods,  until  she 
came  to  the  deserted  shaft.  Several  times,  in 
her  rapid  flight,  she  thought  she  heard  foot 
steps  behind  her,  but  looking  round  could  see 
no  one ;  and  when  she  paused  in  the  lonely 
glade  beside  the  pit-hole,  it  seemed  to  her 
that  she  must  be  the  only  living  thing  in  all 
the  world,  so  intense  was  the  stillness  sur 
rounding  her.  But  the  black  shadows  of  the 
fir-trees  fell  across  the  mouth  of  the  pit,  and 
the  water  oozing  through  the  stones  at  the 
side  fell  with  a  melancholy  plash  into  the 
pool  at  the  bottom,  and  the  blackberry-vines 
clinging  about  the  verge  were  red  as  if  the 
blood  of  a  murdered  man  had  fallen  there ; 
and  Ruth,  chilled  out  of  her  desperate  mean 
ing,  stood  shivering  and  looking  about  her, 
feeling  that,  although  life  might  be  forlorn, 
death  was  terrible,  when  a  rustling  footfall 
close  behind  made  her  start  and  turn  in  sud 
den  fright. 

Parting  the  underbrush  away  where  he 
stood,  a  man  peered  out  at  her,  his  face  most 
discordantly  framed  by  the  tender  green 
branches  of  the  birches,  and  his  stooping 
figure  dimly  discernible  behind  them. 

At  first  sight  of  face  and  figure,  the  girl 
shrank  back  with  no  more  than  natural  terror, 


but  presently  the  glance  of  terror  turned  to 
one  of  horror,  which  slowly  froze  upon  the 
delicate  features  until  they  resembled  a  mar 
ble  mask  of  some  Gorgon-victim,  and  step  by 
step  the  girl  drew  nearer  to  the  mouth  of  the 
pit,  resolute  to  seek  shelter  there,  if  no  better 
might  be  found,  from  the  awful  doom  which 
menaced  her. 

But  help  was  at  hand ;  the  sound  of  foot 
steps  and  voices  approached  along  the  path, 
and  the  head  among  the  birches  suddenly  dis 
appeared,  while  Ruth,  relieved  from  the  horri 
ble  fascination  of  those  eyes,  turned  with  a 
stifled  scream,  and  fled,  passing  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Chappelleford  without  a  word,  nor  pausing 
until  she  was  securely  hidden  in  her  own 
chamber  at  home. 

"  Why,  what  is  the  matter  with  the  young 
woman  ?  It  is  too  late  for  March  madness," 
exclaimed  Mr.  Chappelleford,  turning  to  look 
after  the  retreating  figure. 

"  I  am  sure  I  cannot  tell.  Perhaps  she  saw 
some  wild  animal,  or  fancied  a  ghost  among 
the  trees,"  replied  Beatrice,  whose  pale  face 
and  nervous  manner  ill-supported  the  careless 
tone  she  forced  herself  to  assume.  Presently 
she  resumed : 

"  Then  you  cannot  go  to-morrow  ?" 

"No,  I  tell  you,  nor  the  next  day.  My 
workmen  are  just  preparing  to  take  the 
most  important  casts  we  have  obtained  yet, 
and  I  think  I  shall  discover  something  worth 
more  than  all  the  rest  before  to-night.  I 
have  said  nothing  yet  to  Brent,  nor  even  set 
the  men  at  work,  but  I  think  that  I  have  a 
distinct  impression  of  a  gigantic  ichthyosaurus 
in  a  bed  of  slate  just  below  a  loose  deposit  of 
shale,  which  I  am  picking  away  myself.  I 
don't  want  to  say  any  thing  until  I  am  certain, 
but  if  my  supposition  proves  correct,  I  shall 
have  conferred  a  lasting  benefit  upon  my 
country  and  the  Historical  Society  by  my 
Western  journey.  Wo  have  not  such  an  im 
pression — in  fact,  I  never  have  seen  such  an 
impression  in  any  part  of  the  world  as  this. 
It  is  really  marvellous.  You  must  come  and 
look  at  it." 

"  Where  is  it  ?"  asked  Beatrice  faintly. 

"In  a  side-cutting  of  this  old  mine.  My 
men  are  at  work  in  the  main  tunnel,  and  I 
wandered  away  with  my  lantern  yesterday  to 
see  what  discoveries  I  could  make.  This  is 
about  half  a  mile  from  where  they  are  at 
work.  By  the  way,  Beatrice,  you  amused  your 
self  once  by  calling  me  Diogenes " 


124 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


"  How  did  you  know  it  ?  I  never  said  so," 
exclaimed  Beatrice,  a  little  confused. 

"  I  knew  it ;  my  eyes  and  ears  are  tolerably 
keen,  and  my  mental  perceptions  not  especi 
ally  dull.  But  what  I  was  about  to  say  was, 
that,  after  Diogenes,  I  have  taken  to  carrying  a 
lantern  in  the  daylight,  and  I  have  discovered 
what  he  did  not — an  honest  man." 

"  Indeed  !" 

"  Yes.  It  is  your  friend  Brent.  I  don't 
know  when  I  have  come  so  near  liking  any 
one  as  I  do  him.  It  is  very  fortunate  you  did 
not  marry  him,  madam." 

"  Why  do  you  say  so  ?" 

"  Because  you  would  have  been  in  love  with 
him,  and  that  would  have  been  the  end  of  you. 
Now  you  are  something  better  than  an  affec 
tionate,  sympathizing  woman — you  are  a  com 
panion  for  men,  and  a  worthy  friend  and  help 
mate  for  a  seeker  after  knowledge.  Beatrice, 
I  am  glad  you  decided  as  you  did  that  even 
ing  in  Barstow's  drawing-room." 

"  Are  you,  Mr.  Chappelleford  ?" 

"  Well,  what  is  it  ?  Your  eyes  are  full  of 
unspoken  words,  and  your  lips  tremble  with 
repressed  emotion.  Speak  it  out,  honestly 
and  fearlessly.  Perhaps  I  can  fancy  half  the 
story  beforehand." 

"  I  wish  that  we  could  leave  this  place  to 
morrow.  It  is  very  hard  for  me  to  stay,"  mur 
mured  Beatrice,  shrinking  beneath  the  keen 
glances  shot  at  her  from  under  the  philoso 
pher's  shaggy  eyebrows. 

"  Well,  go  on.     Speak  it  out." 

"There  is  nothing  to  speak.  I  want  to 
leave  this  place." 

"And  Marston  Brent?  You  find  that  the 
old  folly  rises  too  vividly  to  memory,  and 
shames  the  calmer  and  wiser  present  ?  You 
dislike  to  recall  the  stupidities  you  have  out 
lived  ?  Is  that  it  ?" 

"  No.  I  dread  to  discover  that  I  have  not 
outlived  them,"  said  Beatrice  desperately. 
"  I  wish  to  leave  this  place  before  I  add  the 
crime  of  living,  present  love  to  the  anguish — 
folly,  if  you  will — of  that  which.  I  believed 
dead  and  buried." 

They  had  by  this  time  reached  the  entrance 
of  the  horizontal  shaft  of  the  deserted  mine, 
and  Mr.  Chappelleford  paused,  leaning  against 
the  gray  rocks,  with  an  air  of  profound  dis 
comfiture,  while  before  him  stood  his  wife, 
her  hands  clasped  together,  her  head  droop 
ing,  her  whole  attitude  that  of  a  criminal 
awaiting  sentence. 


It  came  at  last,  sentence  and  punishment 
in  one : 

"  I  once  knew  a  man,"  said  the  philosopher 
slowly,  "an  ardent  Darwinian,  who  under 
took  the  education  of  a  very  promising  mon 
key,  hoping  to  develop  in  him  the  intelli 
gence  of  a  man.  The  work  went  on,  with 
varying  success,  until  one  day,  as  the  mas 
ter  was  giving  a  lesson  in  the  alphabet, 
and  the  monkey  attending  to  it  with  the 
most  promising  gravity  of  demeanor,  a  mis 
chievous  boy  rolled  an  apple  across  the  floor, 
at  which  sight,  the  monkey,  uttering  a  cry 
of  delight,  dropped  upon  all  fours,  pursued 
and  seized  the  prey,  and  when  his  mas 
ter  would  have  snatched  it  from  him,  dealt 
him  a  blow  upon  the  head  with  his  own  ruler, 
which  nearly  knocked  him  down.  As  he  re 
covered  his  balance,  he  saw  the  monkey  scut 
tling  away  across  some  sheds,  holding  fast  to 
the  apple,  and  uttering  wild  cries  of  brutish 
defiance  and  terror.  My  friend  looked  after 
him  a  moment,  then  slowly  shook  his  fist  in 
dismissal,  crying :  '  Go !  It  is  I  that  was  a 
fool  in  trying  to  make  a  man  out  of  a  mon 
key.'  Mrs.  Chappelleford,  amuse  yourself 
with  whatever  toys  suit  you  best ;  but  do  not 
concern  yourself  farther  about  my  History  of 
the  Saurian  or  Treatise  upon  Philology.  I  re 
lease  you  from  all  such  labors  and  interests." 

He  turned  as  he  spoke,  and  entered  the 
cave,  leaving  Beatrice  to  slowly  and  sadly 
retrace  her  steps. 

"  To  lose  even  the  respect  and  friendship 
of  my  husband  !  To  feel  myself  shut  out  from 
the  pursuits  that  have  been  my  life  since  I 
lost  all  other  hope !  What  will  become  of 
me  next  ?  What  is  left " 

And  Beatrice  raised  her  sad  and  wistful 
eyes  to  the  trees,  the  sky.  to  nature,  whom 
her  teacher  had  set  for  her  in  place  of  God. 
But  where  was  comfort  ? 

"  Could  I  speak  with  you  a  minute,  lady  ?" 
said  a  hoarse  voice  at  her  side,  and  Mrs. 
Chappelleford  turned  to  find  herself  face  to 
face  with  a  rough  and  rugged  man,  whose 
pale  face  and  shaking  limbs  told  of  disease, 
as  plainly  as  his  coward  eyes  and  shrinking 
manner  did  of  guilt.  A  man  whom  a  timid 
woman  would  have  feared  to  meet,  alone  and 
unprotected  ;  but  Mrs.  Chappelleford  was  not 
timid  at  any  time,  and  just  now  was  too 
deeply  absorbed  in  her  own  unhappiness  to 
care  much  for  danger  from  without. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


135 


"  You  wish  to  speak  to  me  ?"  asked  she 
coldly. 

"  Yes,  ma'am.  I  think  I've  seen  you  before. 
You  was  at  Milvor,  at  old  Deacon  Barstow's 
funeral,-  Ava'n't  you?  You're  she  that  was 
Beatrice  Wansted  ?'' 

"  Very  well.     What  then  ?" 

"  Well,  ma'am,  it's  a  long  story,  and  a 
pretty  hard  one  for  me  to  tell,  but  I've  come 
all  the  way  here  on  purpose,  and  I'll  do  it,  if 
I  can  see  my  way  clear  to  get  away  after 
ward.  You're  stopping  at  Mr.  Brent's,  a'n't 
you?" 

"  Yes." 

"  And  he's  a  justice,  a'n't  he?" 

"  Yes." 

"  And  there's  a  girl  there,  about  eighteen  or 
so.  What  do  they  call  her?" 

"  Ruth." 

"  What  other  name  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know." 

"  Well,  ma'am,  I've  got  something  to  tell 
that  girl,  or  to  tell  a  justice  before  her,  and 
Square  Brent  would  do  better  than  any  one  ; 
but  I  darsn't  go  anigh  him,  without  somebody 
to  go  surety  that  he  won't  touch  me." 

"  Touch  you  for  what  ?" 

"  Why,  there's  something  in  my  story  that 
would  lay  me  in  jail  if  it  was  acted  on,  but 
I've  got  to  tell  it  all  out,  or  I  can't  settle  to 
nothing,  and  I  don't  know  as  I  could  die  if  I 
set,  out  to — not  die  comf  table  anyhow.  And 
I  want  to  tell  it,  but  I  want  the  Square's 
promise,  solemn,  that  he  won't  touch  me  for 
it.  Couldn't  you  get  it  for  me,  ma'am  ?" 

"  Perhaps.  But  why  do  you  select  Mr. 
Brent  as  the  most  suitable  person  to  hear 
your  deposition  ?" 

"  Because,  ma'am,  he's  a  sort  of  gardeen  to 
the  girl,  this  Ruth.  It's  about  her  the  story 
is." 

"  Something  to  her  advantage,  or  to  her 
hurt  ?" 

"  Well,  pretty  consid'able  to  her  advantage, 
I  should  say." 

"  Very  well  ;  I  will  speak  to  Mr.  Brent,  and 
if  he  chooses  to  hear  you,  and  to  give  you  safe 
conduct,  he  can  send  here  for  you.  You  had 
better  wait  near  that  old  well  I  just  passed." 

"  And  how  '11  I  be  sure,  when  I  see  some 
one  come  after  me,  that  it  a'n't  a  trap?" 
asked  the  man  with  a  look  of  mingled  cun 
ning  and  terror. 

"  You  will  have  to  leave  that  to  me,"  re 
plied  Mrs.  Chappelleford  disdainfully.  "  I 


shall  not  be  likely  to  betray  a  person  who  has 
trusted  himself  to  me ;  but  I  can  give  you 
no  proof  other  than  my  word." 

"  Very  well,  ma'am,  I'll  trust  you,  and  I'll 
wait  by  the  old  well.  I  was  there  this  morn 
ing,  and  saw  Ruth  herself,  but  she  run  as 
soon  as  she  saw  me,  and  no  wonder  either." 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 
THE   MARK   OP   CAIN". 

FINDING  Brent  among  his  workmen  at  the 
forge,  Mrs.  Chappelleford  called  him  aside, 
and  in  a  few  clear  phrases  told  her  errand. 
He  listened  attentively,  and  when  she  had 
finished  said : 

"  Thank  you  very  much.  I  can  guess  who 
this  man  must  be,  and,  I  hope,  his  errand. 
Certainly  I  will  give  him  a  safe  conduct  if 
his  confession  is  what  I  think,  and  I  will  go 
myself  to  assure  him  of  it.  Ruth  must  be 
present  at  the  examination;  and  if  it  is  not 
asking  too  much  of  you,  I  should  be  glad  that 
you  should  give  her  the  support  of  your  pres 
ence." 

"  Certainly.  Arrange  the  whole  as  you 
think  best,  and  I  will  do  whatever  you  desire," 
said  Beatrice  humbly,  for  since  their  conver 
sation  upon  the  mountain-top  she  felt  herself 
bitterly  humiliated  in  presence  of  this  man, 
and  while  ardently  desiring  to  es*cape  from  it, 
found  somewhat  of  comfort  in  submission  and 
deference  to  him  in  all  minor  matters — thus  as 
serting,  as  it  were,  that  he  was  not  only  her 
superior  in  moral  strength  and  worth,  but  the 
superior  of  all  men  in  all  things,  and,  conse 
quently,  that  to  be  conquered  by  him  was  not 
so  much  of  a  defeat  as  a  necessity.  Brent, 
whose  habit  of  thought  was  not  analytical, 
and  who  himself  felt  sorely  hurt  and  troubled 
by  the  conversation  into  which  he  had  been 
betrayed,  noticed  this  manner  with  annoyance, 
and  did  not  seek  to  fathom  its  cause.  He 
felt,  however,  that  renewed  intercourse  had 
done  harm  both  to  Beatrice  and  himself,  and 
lie  earnestly  wished  that  it  might  terminate 
before  either  found  deeper  cause  to  regret  it. 
Perhaps,  although  he  would  not  think  it,  he 
felt  in  his  inmost  heart  that  the  struggle  be 
tween  his  deepest  and  truest  convictions  of 
right  and  the  natural  impulses  of  a  strong  and 
loving  nature  was  becoming  too  nearly  equal 
for  safety,  and  he  feared  to  lose  sol  f- respect  as 
well  as  peace  should  the  contest  continue 
longer.  "  At  any  rate,"  he  murmured,  striding 


126 


THE   SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


along  the  woodland  patli  toward  the  old  shaft, 
"  1  will  tell  R'uthie  every  thing,  and  if  she 
can  love  me  then,  we  will  be  married." 

And  then  he  sighed,  or  more  nearly  groaned, 
and  frowned  and  clenched  his  strong  right 
hand,  muttering : 

"  Well,  Brent,  are  you  a  villain  or  a  fool  ?'* 

Deep  in  thought  still,  he  reached  the  shaft, 
and  looked  about  him  blankly.  Then  remem 
bered  his  errand,  and  called  aloud  : 

"  Joachim  Brewster,  where  are  you?'' 

At  sound  of  that  name,  a  stir  became  per 
ceptible  in  the  bushes  beyond  the  pit,  and 
presently  the  haggard  face  of  the  man  ap 
peared,  as  it  had  done  to  Ruth,  but  now  wear 
ing  an  expression  of  anxious  distrust. 

"  Hallo,  Square !  How  d'ye  know  my 
name  7" 

"Guessed  it  from  your  errand.  Come 
out." 

"  She  said  she'd  promise  for  you  that  I 
shouldn't  be  touched.  D'ye  agree,  Square  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  promise  you  safe  conduct  as  soon 
as  you  like  to  depart.  That  is,  if  your  confes 
sion  is  worth  any  thing." 

"  It's  worth  that  girl  Ruth's  neck  to  her 
anyway,  and  I  reckon  that  makes  it  worth 
something  to  you,  Square,  if  what  they  say 
is  BO." 

"  Follow  me  to  my  house,  and  I  will  hear 
what  you  have  to  say  in  the  presence  of  wit 
nesses,"  said  Brent,  staring  a  moment  at  the 
speaker,  and  then  turning  upon  his  heel  and 
striding  down  the  path. 

Timidly  as  a  wild  animal  leaving  its  lair  for 
the  open  country,  the  miserable  man  to  whom 
he  spoke  crept  from  his  shelter  and  followed, 
muttering : 

"  She  said  I  shouldn't  be  touched,  she  did." 

Arrived  at  the  house,  Mr.  Brent  led  the  way 
to  a  small  room  set  apart  as  a  study,  or  rather 
office  for  the  transaction  of  both  private  and 
public  business,  and  leaving  his  somewhat 
reluctant  guest  seated  there,  went  himself  to 
summon  Mrs.  Chappelleford,  Ruth,  and  Paul 
Freeman  to  meet  him.  Entering  the  room 
rather  suddenly,  the  guest  was  found  softly 
raising  the  window  and  looking  to  see  what 
lay  beneath. 

"  You  need  not  trouble  yourself  to  contrive 
a  way  to  escape,  Mr.  Brewster,"  said  Brent 
coldly.  "  The  door  is  free  for  you  at  any 
time  you  choose  to  use  it.  You  requested  this 
interview  yourself." 

"  Yes,  yes.  Square,  I  know  it.     I  was  only 


looking  out  to  see  what  sort  of  a  place  you'd 
got.  The  lady  there  said  I  shouldn't  be  touch 
ed, and  I  allow  she  knew  your  mind  as  well  as 
her  own." 

"You  are  perfectly  safe,"  replied  Brent  con 
temptuously.  "  What  have  you  to  say  ?" 

"  Where's  Ruth  ?  Oh  1  there  she  is.  Don't 
look  so  scared  of  me,  girl.  I  a'n't  going  to 
touch  you  now — and,  in  fact.  I've  come  all  this 
way  to  clear  you  and  set  you  in  your  right 
place.  You  can  have  the  farm  and  all,  if 
you've  a  mind  to  go  and  get  it." 

Ruth,  Shivering  with  terror,  and  crouching 
upon  a  low  stool  almost  behind  Mrs.  Chap 
pelleford,  made  no  reply,  and  Brent,  seating 
himself  at  his  desk  with  pen  and  paper, 
somewhat  sternly  said : 

"  Now,  Mr.  Brewster,  if  you  have  a  deposi 
tion  to  make,  I  am  ready  to  take  it,  and  wish 
it  given  regularly  and  in  order.  You,  of 
course,  are  willing  to  swear  to  its  truth,  and 
set  your  name,  properly  witnessed,  at  the 
foot." 

"  On  conditions,  Square — on  conditions  that 
I  a'n't  a  going  to  be  touched  for  it.  I'm  a  sick 
man,  Square — I  won't  say  but  what  I'm  a  dy 
ing  man,  and  all  I  ask  is  to  go  off  and  lose 
myself  somewheres  and  die  in  peace.  If  so 
be  you  can't  promise  that,  why  I'd  rather  not 
put  my  name  to  nothing  that's  going  to  be 
used  agin  me,  maybe." 

"  I  shall  take  no  proceedings  against  you,  as 
I  have  repeatedly  promised  you  ;  and  although 
I  shall  use  your  confession  to  clear  Ruth's 
character  of  the  horrible  stain  you  have  thrown 
upon  it,  you  will  have  ample  time  to  escape, 
and,  if  you  are  at  all  wise,  to  hide  yourself  so 
well  that  you  will  never  be  heard  from  again 
east  of  the  Rocky  Mountains  at  least." 

"Well,  Square,  it  a'n't  just  as  I  meant  to 
have  it,  but  I'm  about  tired  out,  and  I  a'n't 
a  well  man,  nor  a  cheerful  man,  and  I  don't 
know  as  I  care  how  it  turns  out.  I'll  go  ahead 
and  do  the  right  thing  anyway.  So  this  is 
what  I've  got  to  say,  and  you  can  take  it  down 
as  fast  as  you've  a  mind  to  : 

"  Me  and  Peleg  Brewster  were  brothers,  but 
after  he  married  Semanthy  the  brother  part 
on't  seemed  to  die  out.  I  a'n't  a  going  to  tell 
all  about  it  now,  for  it  don't  matter  much  one 
way  or  t'other,  but  I  don't  deny  that  Peleg 
had  his  trials,  and  like  enough  we  didn't  do 
jest  right  by  him,  me  and  Semanthy  didn't. 
And  then  Semanthy  hated  the  child,  Ruth 
there — oh  !  how  Semanthy  did  hate  her — and 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


127 


treated  her  bad  most  every  way  that  she  could 
think  of.  The  worst  was,  setting  her  father 
against  her ;  but  she  did  that  for  a  reason  she 
had — two  reasons,  in  fact.  One  was  that  Ruth 
saw  and  told  things  that  went  on  while  Peleg 
was  away — that  made  him  awful  mad  with  us; 
and  another  was  that  when  Mary — that  was  his 
first  wife,  you  know — died,  he  made  a  will  and 
left  all  the  money  to  Ruth — farm,  house,  stuff, 
and  every  thing — and  he  hadn't  never  changed 
that  will,  though  Semanthy  had  asked  him 
often  enough.  But  at  last  one  night  there 
was  an  awful  row  in  the  house — no  matter 
what  it  was  now — but  Ruth  she  up  and  told 
something  to  her  father,  and  Semanthy  said 
she  lied,  and  she  told  her  own  story,  that  put 
all  the  blame  onto  Ruth,  and  I  helped  her  out 
in  it,  for  Peleg  had  a  knife  in  his  hand,  and 
would  have  put  it  into  me  quicker'n  a  flash  if 
Semanthy  and  me  hadn't  stood  it  out  that 
Ruth  was  the  liar  and  something  worse." 

"  Oh !  it  was  so  cruel,  so  cruel  to  make  my 
own  father  believe  such  things  of  me  ;  and  he 

died,  and  never  knew "  burst  out  Ruth  ; 

and  then  hiding  her  face  upon  Beatrice's  lap, 
she  fell  into  a  passion  of  sobs  and  tears. 

"  Go  on,  Brewster,"  said  Brent  sternly,  and 
never  glancing  toward  the  corner  where  the 
women  sat. 

"  Well,  Peleg  was  awful  mad,  and  the  worst 
of  it  to  him  was  that  he  didn't  know  who  to 
believe  or  what  to  think,  and  finally  he  fixed 
it  that  we  was  all  banded  together  against 
him,  and  that  Ruth  was  jealous  of  Semanthy, 
and  so  complained  against  her;  for  Semanthy 
made  it  out  that  the  girl,  young  as  she  was, 
liked  me  most  too  well,  and  Ruth  didn't  know 
enough  about  it  to  luy  her  in  a  lie,  as  she 
might  have  easy  enough.  So,  Peleg  settled  it 
that  we  were  a  bad  lot,  the  whole  of  us,  and 
he  swore  he  would  just  quit  for  good  and  all, 
sell  out  the  farm,  put  Ruth  to  service,  take 
Semanthy  home  to  her  mother,  and  let  me 
shirk  for  myself.  That  was  at  night,  and  in 
the  morning,  sure  enough,  Semanthy  saw  him 
get  the  will  he'd  made  out  of  his  old  secretary 
and  put  it  in  his  pocket  with  a  lot  of  other 
papers — the  deeds  of  the  homestead,  and  such 
like,  they  turned  out  to  be.  Then  he  got  up 
the  horse  and  harnessed  him,  and  called  Ruth 
to  come  along. 

"  It  was  while  he  was  sitting  in  the  wagon 
a  waiting  for  her  that  he  tied  the  rope  round 
his  own  neck,  for  he  told  Semanthy  that  he 
was  going  to  Bloom,  or  Milvorhaven,  I  most 


forget  which,  for  to.  sell  the  farm  and  all  the 
stock  just  as  it  stood,  and  that  neither  she  nor 
me  nor  Ruth  was  to  have  the  money,  if  he 
had  to  throw  it  away  to  keep  it  from  us.  And 
he  told  her  he'd  carry  her  home  next  day,  and 
tell  her  folks  the  reason  why  ;  and  he  said  a 
lot  of  other  things,  some  to  her  and  some  to 
me,  that  was  dreadful  irritating,  and  danger 
ous  too,  if  he  did  as  he  said— and  Peleg  was  a 
man  that  was  dreadful  apt  to  hold  to  one 
mind  for  quite  a  long  spell. 

"  So  he  drove  away  from  the  door,  and  Se 
manthy  she  stood  ever  so  long  looking  at  me 


Joachim  Brewter  waiting  for  his  brother. 

with  the  awfullest  look  that  ever  you  see  on 
her  face,  and  at  last  she  said  sort  of  quiet : 

"  '  Joe  Brewster,  if  that  man  gets  to  'Haven 
alive,  it's  all  up  with  you  and  me.' 

"  '  Maybe  'tis,  but  how  am  I  going  to  help 
it?'  says  I,  feeling  the  goose  flesh  rising  up 
all  over  me  as  she  spoke,  it  was  so  sort  of  sol- 
emn.  Then  she  smiled,  and  that  was  worse 
than  all,  and  she  said,  pointing  to  my  gun^: 

" '  A'n't  you  going  shooting  to-day,  Joe  ?' 

«'O  Lord !  Semanthy,'  says  I,  'you  don't 
mean  that,  do  you  ?' 

"  And  she  says  just  in  the  same  way : 


128 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


"  '  If  you  don't,  I'll  drown  myself  in  the  wel 
before  that  'ere  sun  sets — I  swear  I  will.' 

"  And  she'd  ha'  done  it — I  know  she  would 

"  So  I  cut  across  the  wood-lot,  and  I  waitec 
just  where  the  road  turns  sudden  and  runs 
by  Black  brier  pond,  and — and  there  I  done  it  " 

And  with  the  first  touch  of  feeling  he  had 
yet  shown,  the  miserable  man  wiped  his 
clammy  forehead,  moistened  his  lips,  and 
glared  about  him  as  if  he  dreaded  to  see  the 
hangman  approaching. 

"  Be  more  specific.  What  did  you  do  ?"  de 
manded  Brent,  fixing  his  eyes  upon  the  wretch 
before  him  with  undisguised  abhorrence. 

"  I  shot  him  in  the  back  from  behind  a  tree, 
and  then  I  jumped  into  the  wagon  and  held  a 
knife  at  the  child's  throat,  and  told  her  that 
she'd  killed  her  father,  and  I  see  her  do  it, 
and  I'd  carry  her  straight  on  to  Bloom  and 
put  her  in  jail,  and  she'd  be  hung.  The  poor 
little  fool  was  so  scared  she  didn't  know  at 
first  but  what  she  had  done  it,  and  didn't 
hardly  kuow  what  to  say,  and  then  I  made 
her  get  down  on  her  knees  and  swear  solemn 
that  she  never  would  say  a  word  to  man, 
woman,  nor  child  about  the  matter,  nor  an 
swer  any  questions,  nor  even  say  yes  or  no  if 
she  was  asked  if  she'd  done  it. 

"She  took  the  oath,  and  she  was  just  the 
child  that  I  knew  would  keep  it  if  you  skin 
ned  her  alive  to  get  the  story  out  of  her ;  but 
for  all  that  I  was  calculating  to  take  her  right 
off  to  the  city  and  put  her  in  an  orphan  asy 
lum,  or  lose  her  in  the  street,  or  some  way  get 
rid  of  her.  That  was  Semanthy's  planning, 
mind  you,  not  mine,  for  I  always  liked  the  child 
first-rate.  I  was  always  good  to  you,  Ruth, 
wasn't  I  now  ?" 

The  fawning,  wheedling  tone  of  the  last 
words  was  even  more  odious  than  the  callous 
brutality  of  the  first  part  of  the  narrative,  and 
while  Ruth  shrank  silently  into  her  corner, 
Brent  peremptorily  said : 

"  Go  on  with  your  story,  Brewster,  and  ad 
dress  yourself  only  to  me." 

"Well,  Square,  there  a 'n't  much  more  to 
tell.  When  I'd  got  the  gal's  promise,  I  left 
her  and  took  the  body  and  pitched  it  over  into 
the  pool,  thinking  folks  would  say  it  had  fell 
there,  and  maybe  it  wouldn't  be  found  at  all.  I 
hardly  seem  to  remember  now  how  we  did 
plan  it.  Semanthy  was  to  the  head  on't  all, 
and  I  only  did  as  she  told  me.  You  see, 
Square,  I  wa'n't  nigh  so  much  to  blame  as  she 
all  along." 


"  Go  on  with  your  story,  Brewster." 
"  Well,  as  I  was  saying,  I  hove  the  body 
into  the  pool,  and  I  fired  off  the  gun,  as  Se 
manthy  told  me — that  is,  Peleg's  gun,  for  I  had 
my  own  beside — and  I  give  the  horses  a  good 
cut,  and  set  'em  off  down  the  road — that  nigh 
one  was  always  skittish  enough,  and  I  knew 
it  wouldn't  be  a  trifle  that  would  stop  him — 
and  then  I  turned  round  to  look  after  the 
child,  and  she  was  gone.  Look  high  and  look 
low,  not  a  sign  of  her  was  to  be  seen,  and, 
Square,  I  wisht  you'd  just  ask  her  yourself, 
sence  you  won't  let  me  speak  to  her,  where  did 
she  go  that  time  ?" 

"  Do  you  want  to  tell  him,  Ruth  ?" 
"  I  crawled  into  a  great  hollow  tree  and 
waited  until  he  was  gone,  and  then  I  came 
out  and  ran  ever  so  far,  and  fell  down.  I  don't 
know  what  happened  afterward — I  think  I  was 
sort  of  crazy  for  a  while ;  and  the  next  I  knew 
Paul  Freeman  was  with  me,  and  crying  as 
hard  as  he  could  cry,  and  then  he  hid  me  in  a 
barn,  and  next  day  took  me  over  to  Bloom 
and  dressed  me  like  a  boy,  and  kept  me  at  the 
tavern  till  you  were  ready  to  go  West." 

'You  hear?  Brewster,"  said  Mr.  Brent,  to 
whom  this  hurried  narrative  was  as  new  as  to 
any  other  of  its  auditors. 

'  Yes,  Square,  I  hear  ;  and  it  does  beat  all 
what  hindered  me  from  looking  into  that  hol 
ler  tree.  Seems  curious  that  I  didn't,"  replied 
Joachim  with  an.  air  of  meditative  regret. 


CHAPTER  L. 
AND    HIS    CURSE. 

"Is  that  all?"  demanded  Brent,  as  the  mis- 
rable  wretch  before  him  seemed  indis 
posed  to  resume  his  narrative,  but  sat  wiping 
lis  forehead,  furtively  glancing  at  every  mem 
ber  of  the  little  company  in  turn,  and  moving 
uneasily  upon  his  chair. 

"  Well,  yes,  Square,  I  b'lieve  that's  all.'' 

"And  now,  what  is  the  purpose  of  this  con 
fession,  Brewster  ?  Why  do  you  make  it,  and 
what  do  you  wish  done  with  it  ?" 

"  That's  the  very  pethof  the  whole,  Square," 
replied  Brewster,  his  face  lighting  with  more 
xpression  than  it  yet  had  displayed.  "It 
does  seem  a  simple  sort  of  thing  for  a  man  to 
do,  to  go  and  run  his  head  right  square  into  a 
noose  when  he  is  well  out  of  it — now  don't  it  ? 
But  the  fact  is,  Square,  I  was  drove  to  it." 

"  By  what  ?" 

"  By  euthin'  inside  of  me,  Square.     I  don't 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


139 


justly  know  what,"  replied  the  murderer  in 
an  awe-stricken  and  mysterious  voice.  "It's 
been  a-working  most  ever  sence  I  did  it.  Se- 
manthy  felt  it,  too,  and  it  made  her  awful — 
right  down  awful.  I  declare  for't,  Square,  I 
was  afraid  to  stop  in  the  house  with  her,  and 
use  to  clear  out  whole  days  to  a  time.  But 
then  if  I  went  off  alone,  it  was  as  bad,  for  I 
seemed  to  see  Peleg  glimpsing  out  at  me  from 
every  tree  in  the  wood-lot,  and  from  behind 
every  stone  in  the  fields  ;  and  then  the  child, 
I  expected  she'd  made  way  with  herself,  and 
I  was  always  looking  out  for  her  bones,  and 
maybe  her  nateral  face  a-staring  up  out  of  the 
ground  at  me.  I  have  heerd  of  such  things, 
Square.  And  then  if  I  went  amongst  folks, 
there  it  was  agen  :  I  didn't  darst  to  open  my 
mouth  for  fear  the  secret  would  jump  out  of 
it,  unbeknownst  to  me,  like.  It  seemed  to  me 
sometimes  as  if  I'd  got  to  holler  right  out : 
'I  did  it!  I  did  it!  'Twas  me  killed  my 
brother,  Peleg  Brewster,  and  hove  him  in 
Blackbrier  Pool !' 

"  I  declare  for't,  Square,  I  was  clean  afraid 
to  trust  myself  amongst  folks,  and  I  was 
scaart  to  death  of  being  alone ;  and  to  stop 
along  o'  Semanthy  was  worst  of  the  whole 
What  sort  o'  thoughts  or  what  sort  o'  sperits 
ha'n't  that  woman  I  don't  know ;  but  there's  a 
look  on  her  face — 'specially  deep  down  in  her 
eyes — that  makes  a  feller's  flesh  creep  on  his 
bones  to  meet.  It's  been  a-growing  there  all 
these  five  year,  and  when  she  dies,  it  will  be 
the  look  she'll  carry  to  her  grave.  I  wouldn't 
be  the  man  to  screw  down  her  coffin-led,  not 
for  no  money — she'll  look  so  awful  when  she's 
dead.  Along  at  first  we  used  to  talk  about  it, 
and  she'd  sort  o'  set  me  up,  telling  how  ugly 
Peleg  was  to  both  of  us,  and  how  he  was 
going  to  turn  me  out  upon  the  world  and  dis 
grace  her,  and  she'd  laugh — though  it  wasn't 
never  a  good  laugh — and  say  we'd  got  the 
best  on't  now,  and  pass  it  off  as  though  she 
was  happy  ;  but — 0  Lord  !  Then  we  got  fur 
ther  along,  and  left  off  talking  about  it,  or,  in 
fact,  about  much  of  any  thing.  The  neigh 
bors  wouldn't  come  to  see  us,  nor  the  women 
wouldn't  speak  to  Semanthy  at  meetin',  or 
sewing-circles,  or  such,  and  she  left  off  going, 
and  then  the  look  in  her  eyes  began  to  grow. 

"  There  was  one  thing  I  kept  from  her,  and 
I  don't  hardly  know  why,  but  I  did.  That 
was  the  will  leaving  every  thing  to  Ruth.  I 
told  her  it  was  gone,  and  that  most  likely 
Peleg  had  torn  it  up ;  but  I  kept  it,  and  hid  it 
9 


in  the  barn,  and  she  never  knew.  It  used  to 
work  her  dreadfully  at  first,  because  the  es 
tate  couldn't  be  settled  for  want  of  a  will  or 
knowing  about  Ruth  ;  and  finally  we  got  some 
bones  —  well,  we  got  'em  out  of  the  church 
yard,^  and  dressed  'em  in  Ruth's  clothes,  and 
put  'em  in  the  water  nigh  where  Peleg  was 
found,  and  then  I  fixed  it  so  they  was  diskiv- 
ered,  and  we  swore  to  the  clothes,  and  nobody 
cared  much,  any  way,  and  so  the  property 
was  made  over  to  me  and  Semanthy  had  her 
thirds ;  but,  by  that  time,  we  didn't  neither 
of  us  care  for  the  property,  nor  nothing  else. 
I  didn't  do  much  about  the  farm,  and  it  sort 
o'  run  out,  and  Semanthy  grew  dreadful 
slack  about  the  house,  and  took  to  setting  all 
day  in  a  chair,  drawed  up  close  in  a  corner  of 
the  room,  so  as  nothing  couldn't  get  behind 
her,  and  watching,  watching  all  day,  with 
that  strange,  awful  look  a-growing  on  her 
face,  and  seeming  to  come  up  into  her  eyes 
from  way  down  somewhere.  I  can't  justly 
tell  you  what  I  mean,  Square,  but  I've  stood 
outside  and  peeked  in  the  winder  at  that 
woman  till  it  seemed  as  if  I  looked  out  of  her 
eyes,  and  seen  the  devil  acoming,  ready  to 
catch  her  any  minute. 

"  Bimeby  we  got  dreadful  poor,  and  I  tool? 
to  drink  ;  but  that  was  no  better,  for  I  darsn't 
drink  in  company,  and  when  I  was  alone,  I 
had  the  horrors  so  bad  I  wonder  I  didn't 
shoot  myself.  I  should  ha'  done  it  time  and 
agen,  only  it  seemed  just  as  if  Peleg  was  wait 
ing  to  catch  me  in  the  dark  just  as  soon  as  I 
got  out  o'  life,  and  I  darsn't  meet  him. 

"  Then  at  last  it  come  inter  my  head  that  if 
I  was  to  find  Ruth,  supposing  she  was  alive, 
and  clear  up  the  charge  agin  her,  and  give 
back  the  property,  what's  left  of  it,  that  Peleg 
would  be  kind  o'  pacified,  and  I  might  get 
rest.  What  set  me  thinking  on't  was  hearing 
that  Marston  Brent — that's  you.  Square,  you 
know — had  got  a  gal  he  was  going  to  marry, 
and  she  was  a  Bister  to  Paul  Freeman,  and  her 
name  was  Ruth.  All  that  come  out  through 
Zilpah  Stone's  folks  ;  but  nobody  in  Milvor 
seemed  to  mistrust  any  thing.  You  see  they 
all  swallered  the  story  of  them  bones  being 
Ruth,  and  then  forgot  all  about  her.  But  I 
knew  better,  and  I  knew,  too,  that  Paul  Free 
man  hadn't  got  no  sister,  but  lie  was  always 
mighty  partial  to  our  Ruth  ;  so  putting  every 
thing  together,  and  working  over  it  nights 
and  day-times— when  I  sot  one  eide  of  the  fire 
and  Semanthy  the  other,  and  neither  of  us 


180 


THE   SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


speaking  for  hours  at  a  time — I  began  to  see 
my  way  out  of  it  pooty  clear.  So  then  I  went 
kind  o'  quiet  and  sold  out  the  last  of  the 
bank-stock  that  Pel  eg  left,  and  crep'  away 
one  night,  leaving  Seniauthy  setting  up  with 
the  fire  all  out,  and  the  candle  jest  guttering 
down,  and  the  wind  a-howling  in  the  chimbly 
like  folks.  I  couldn't  stand  it  no  longer,  and 
she'd  got  sort  of  used  to  it,  I  s'pose,  so  I  left 
her. 

"  I'd  inquired  round  some,  of  Dr.  Bliss's  folks 
and  the  Stones',  and  I'd  found  out  pretty  nigh 
where  you  was  located,  Square,  and  so  came 
right  along ;  but  when  I  got  here,  1  kind  o' 
hung  off  till  I  found  out  how  the  land  lay 
First,  I  see  Ruth  in  the  wood  ;  but  as  soon  as 
she  got  sight  of  me  she  run — I  expect  remem 
bering  who  it  was,  and  thinking  I  was  going 
to  serve  her  same  as  she  see  me  serve  Peleg ; 
and  then  pretty  soon  I  see  the  other  woman 
and  spoke  to  her,  and  she  promised  for  you, 
Square,  that  I  shouldn't  be  touched ;  and  so  I 
came." 

"  And  what  are  your  future  plans  ?"  asked 
Brent  in  a  repressed  voice,  as  he  finished 
writing. 

"  All  I  ask,  Square,  is  a  chance  to  die  quiet 
— that's  all  I  want — so  help  me  God,"  replied 
the  man,  with  desperate  earnestness  in  his 
voice,  and  turning  his  haggard  face  and  blood 
shot  eyes  from  side  to  side  of  the  room  like 
some  maimed  reptile  seeking  a  crevice  where 
in  to  hide  and  die. 

"  Let  him  go,  Marston,"  said  Beatrice  in  a 
low  voice,  as  her  eyes  followed  the  motions  of 
the  criminal  with  a  look  of  mingled  aversion 
and  contempt.  "  Let  him  creep  away  and 
die." 

"  He  has  my  promise,"  replied  Brent  in  the 
Bame  tone  ;  "  although  I  do  not  know  how  far 
the  law  would  justify  my  action  after  this 
confession.  Still,  he  has  my  promise,  and  he 
is  safe. 

"  Joachim  Brewster,  sign  your  name  to 
this  paper  in  presence  of  these  witnesses ; 
give  up  the  will  of  which  you  speak,  and  de 
part,  remembering  that,  should  you  ever  re 
appear,  your  confession  will  be  used  against 
you  without  hesitation,  and  that  though  you 
now  escape  the  justice  of  man,  the  justice  of 
God  still  pursues,  and  will  yet  overtake  you." 

"  That's  most  too  bad  of  you,  Square,  when 
I'm  a-doing  all  I  can  to  set  things  straight 
agen,"  whimpered  Joachim,  signing  his  name 
in  a  character  so  shaking  and  so  crabbed  as 


hardly  to  be  legible.  "  Don't  you  believe 
that  Peleg  will  be  pacified  with  this  day's 
work,  Square  ?" 

"  It  is  not  your  brother  that  you  have  to 
dread,"  said  Brent  in  a  low  voice.  "  It  is  God 
who  will  demand  him  at  your  hand,  as  He 
demanded  Abel  of  Cain." 

"  O  Lord  !  O  Lord !  a  n't  there  no  getting 
away  from  it  nohow  ?"  gasped  the  man,  sink 
ing  upon  his  knees,  while  the  sweat  of  mortal 
agony  gathered  upon  his  sordid  brow,  and  his 
eyes,  filled  with  abject  terror,  wandered  from 


Uncle  !  there  is  a  God." 


Brent's  firm,  un  sympathizing  face  to  meet  the 
look  of  satisfied  hatred  upon  that  of  Paul 
Freeman,  and  at  last  sought  with  piteous  ap 
peal  the  two  women,  who  had  risen,  and  stood 
looking  down  upon  him — Mrs.  Chappelleford 
with  close  scrutiny,  Ruth  with  terrible  but 
mingled  emotion. 

That  look  demanded  words,  and  Beatrice 
replied  to  it : 

"  It  would  be  happier  for  you  to  believe 
that  there  is  no  God,"  said  she  calmly. 

"  That  were  to  cast  away  the  small  remnant 
of  hope  left  possible.  Do  not  counsel  him 
thus,"  said  Brent  sternly ;  and  then  Ruth, 
fluttering  forward,  fell  upon  her  knees  beside 
her  father's  murderer  and  her  own  cruel  ene- 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


131 


my,  and  taking  his  poor,  trembling  hands  in 
hers,  cried,  while  the  tears  ran  down  her 
face : 

"  0  uncle  !  there  is  a  God,  and  there  is  no 
escaping  from  Him  or  deceiving  Him  ;  but  He 
is  the  God  of  Love  and  Pardon  as  well  as  of 
Justice,  and  He  will  forgive  you  if  you  truly, 
truly  repent — I  know  He  will,  for  he  puts  it 
in  my  heart  to  forgive  you,  and  to  promise  you 
that  father  will  forgive  you,  too,  if  only  you 
will  use  every  minute  that  is  left  of  your  life 
in  repenting  and  doing  right." 

"  Is  that  so,  Ruth  ?  Do  you  feel  as  if  you'd 
got  a  right  to  tell  me  that  ?  0  Ruthie !  don't 
you  cheat  your  poor  old  uncle  that's  most 
killed  a' ready  with  what  he's  got  to  bear." 

"  It  is  true,  uncle — it  is  true  !  Oh  !  I  am 
just  as  sure  as  sure  can  be  !"  sobbed  the  girl, 
her  pale  face  glorified  with  the  earnestness  of 
her  faith.  "  It  was  a  terrible  sin  ;  but  nothing 
is  too  bad  to  be  forgiven  if  only  you  are  sorry 
enough,  and  do  all  you  can  to  make  up  for  it 
in  this  world." 

"  I'm  glad  I  come  here,  Ruth.  I  thought  it 
were  for  your  sake  I  was  a-doing  it,  but  it 
were  for  my  own.  Ruth,  you've  give  me  the 
first  word  of  comfort  I've  felt  in  five  long  year. 
I  wish't  you'd  come  along  o'  me  and  teach  me 
the  way  to  repent ;  seems  as  if  I  could  keep 
up  to  it  easier  if  I  had  you  clos't  by." 

But  Ruth  shrank  back  at  this  proposal,  and 
Brent  spoke  sharply  and  decidedly  : 

"  That  is  out  of  the  question.  There  lies 
the  door,  Joachim  Brewster.  Go !  and  God 
grant  that  His  pardon  may  indeed  reach  you." 
Without  a  word,  the  broken  man  whom  he 
addressed  rose  to  his  feet,  cast  one  tremulous 
glance  of  gratitude  and  appeal  upon  his  niece, 
who  could  not  meet  it,  and  then  slunk  out  of 
the  house  and  down  the  road,  glancing  behind 
him  and  around  him  at  every  step,  as  one 
•  who  feels  himself  pursued  by  unseen  avengers 
and  so  passed  from  their  sight  forever. 


CHAPTER  LI. 
THE  ICHTHYOSAURUS. 

BUT  Beatrice  stayed  not  to  watch  the  de 
parture  of  the  God-stricken  sinner,  nor  to  dis 
cuss  the  story  he  had  told  with  those  wh< 
remained   behind.     The  few  words  of  stern 
reproof  with  which  Brent  had  met  her  attemp 
to  soothe  the  culprit's  terrors  by  suggesting 
doubt  as  to  their  foundation  had  emitten  he 
sorely,  and  while  the  attention  of  every  on 


•was  absorbed  in  Brewster's  movements,  she 
tole  softly  from  the  room  and  the  house. 

"O  Marston  !  if  I  have  lost  faith,  and  hope, 
nd  all  Christian  graces,  it  is  your  fault,  only 
ours,"  murmured  she,  gliding  along  the  wood- 
iath  where  the  shades  of  evening  already  lay. 

If  you  had  but  held  me  in  your  keeping,  you 

light  have  made   of   me  what  you  would. 

Jut  cold   reason,  unwanned  by  love,  yields 

nly  bitter  fruit.     Why  should  I  believe  in  a 

Gk)d  who  has  denied  me  every  thing  ?" 

And  then  as  if  terrified  at  her  own  question, 
he  stood  still,  glancing  timidly  into  the  dusky 
averts  of  the  wood,  and  hesitating  whether 
o  venture  farther  from  the  human  compan- 
onship  which  was  at  once  an  accusation  and  a 
protection. 

While  she  stood  thus  hesitating,  the  miners 
employed  by  her  husband,  under  Brent's  per- 
nission,  came  trooping  along  the  path,  laugh- 
ng  and  singing  with  the  boisterous  mirth  of 
rude  health  and  animal  spirits.  Any  thing 
so  tangible  restored  the  poise  of  Mrs.  Chap- 
)elleford's  mind  at  once,  and  she  moved 
slowly  forward  to  meet  them.  The  foreman 
stopped  to  speak  to  her. 

"Good-evening,  ma'am.  Has  Mr.  Chap- 
pelleford  come  out  of  the  mine  ?" 

I  have  not  seen  him.  Have  not  you  been 
with  him  T' 

No,  ma'am.  He  said  he  didn't  want  any 
one  to  come  anigh  him  unless  he  called,  and 
as  we  didn't  hear  any  thing,  we  concluded  he'd 
:ome  out.  and  gone  home.  Was  you  going  up 
there,  ma'am?" 

"  No— yes,  I  think  I  will  go  and  meet  him. 
tie  is  in  the  path  to  the  right  of  the  entrance, 
is  he  not  ?" 

Yes,  ma'am.  Some  ways  in,  I  judge, 
though  he  didn't  want  to  be  followed,  and  I 
don't  know  justly  where  he  is.  Maybe  you'd 
like  to  have  me  go  with  you,  ma'am,  as  it's 
getting  kind  of  latish  for  the  mines." 

"  No,  thank  you,  I  am  not  at  all  afraid  ;  tind 
Mr.  Chappelleford,  you  say,  asked  you  not  to 
come  ?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  he  said  so  ;  but,  any  way,  you 
had  better  take  my  lantern.  It's  dark  as 
Egypt  after  you  get  in  a  piece;  long  before 
you'll  see  his  light  you  will  lose  the  daylight, 
every  glimpse  of  it." 

"Thank  you,  I  will  take  the  lantern,"  said 

Beatrice,  with  the  courteous  smile  that  won 

for  her  the  hearts  of  such  men  as  this— too  far 

beneath  her  to  feel  the  scorn  and  satire  with 


133 


THE   SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


which  she  too  often  visited  the  faults  and 
foibles  of  her  equals. 

"  Say,  Mike,"  asked  the  foreman  of  one  of 
his  companions,  as  they  passed  on,  "  don't  the 
Queen  you're  so  fond  of  talking  about  look 
something  like  that  \" 

"  Only  she  a'n't  so  purty  nor  so  ginteel  in 
her  figger.  This  un  'ould  make  the  better 
queen  of  the  two  if  she  had  the  luck,"  replied 
the  Irishman. 

But  Beatrice,  moving  swiftly  on  toward  the 
deserted  mine,  was  thinking : 

"  Yes  ;  I  will  go  to  him  and  ask  him  to  pity 
and  help  me ;  for  what  else  have  I  left  in 
heaven  or  earth  ?  His  teachings  have  de 
prived  me  of  any  faith  in  the  love  of  God,  and 
my  own  folly  has  cut  me  off  from  the  love  of 
man.  What  is  left  to  me  but  the  cold  intellec 
tual  companionship  he  has  so  far  given  me  V 
I  cannot  lose  that  too."  And  hastily,  as  one 
who  fears  to  feel  her  purpose  fail  before  it  is 
accomplished,  she  glided  along  the  darkening 
path  beneath  the  rustling  shadow  of  the  fir- 
trees,  past  the  broken  well  where  the  mur 
derer  had  lain  that  morning  concealed,  and 
up  the  steep  and  stony  hill,  until,  breathless 
and  with  palpitating  heart,  she  stood  in  the 
entrance  of  the  mine,  the  daylight  all  behind 
her,  and  impenetrably  dark  before. 

Listening  eagerly,  she  heard  no  sound  ex 
cept  the  slow  dripping  of  water  oozing  through 
the  loose  slatestone  and  plashing  upon  the  floor 
beneath. 

"  Mr.  Chappelleford  !"  called  she  timidly, 
and  an  echo  far  within  the  arched  passage  re 
turned  the  cry  in  a  strange,  mocking  tone,  like 
that  of  the  demon  of  the  mine  daring  her  to 
enter. 

"  Oh !  I  cannot  go  in,"  whispered  Beatrice, 
shrinking  back,  and  trembling  nervously,  and 
then  the  bitter  thought  of  a  few  moments  be 
fore  returned  upon  her. 

"  He  is  my  husband — he  is  all  I  have  left  for 
this  life  or  another.  I  must  not  shrink  from 
following  where  he  leads  ;  I  must  make  my 
peace  with  him  before  the  sun  sets." 

And  with  trembling  fingers  she  lighted  her 
lantern,  and  with  desperate  courage  pushed 
forward  into  the  dismal  darkness  and  mock 
ing  echoes  of  the  mine.  A  hundred  rods  and 
she  had  lost  the  daylight,  and  felt  as  if  miles 
of  darkness  and  desolation  separated  her  from 
her  fellow-mon.  Holding  her  breath  with 
terror,  guarding  her  steps  that  they  should 
make  no  sound,  glancing  now  at  this  side,  now 


at  that,  catching  reflections  of  the  light  she 
carried  from  the  glittering  surface  of  quartz 
or  mica,  or  from  the  brilliant  eyes  of  some 
bloated  toad  squatted  beside  her  path,  shrink 
ing  from  the  spectral  flight  of  bats  and  night- 
birds  haunting  the  place,  she  hurried  on,  feel 
ing  as  if  she  was  moving  in  a  dream,  in  a 
dismal  nightmare  which  presently  must  cul 
minate  in  some  fantastic  horror  never  yet 
imagined  or  experienced  by  human  mind. 

On,  and  on,  and  on,  until  her  limbs  shook 
with  weariness,  and  her  swimming  brain 
threatened  to  give  way  beneath  the  pressure 
it  sustained ;  and  as  she  paused,  leaning 
against  the  slimy  rock  for  support,  and  dimly 
wondering,  if  she  were  to  die  there,  what 
Marston  Brent  would  feel  in  finding  her,  her 
straining  ears  caught  a  faint  sound,  and  she 
fancied  a  yet  fainter  gleam  of  light  far  down 
the  noisome  tunnel  she  was  traversing. 

"  Thank  God,  I  have  reached  him  !"  was 
the  cry  of  the  desolate  woman's  whole  heart, 
and  then  she  hurried  on,  running  now,  and 
never  heeding  the  echoes  that  mocked  and  the 
shadows  which  came  crowding  after  her,  never 
heeding  bruises,  or  soil,  or  fatigue,  for  every 
moment  the  far  light  grew  nearer  and  more 
certain,  and  every  moment  Beatrice  expected 
to  catch  sight  of  her  husband  at  his  work  or 
coming  toward  her. 

But  the  journey  was  over,  the  friendly 
beacon  reached,  and  still  she  could  not  see 
him  ;  only  just  opposite  the  light  which  stood 
upon  a  projecting  shelf  of  slate  lay  a  great 
mass  of  rock  almost  filling  the  passage,  while 
above  it  a  corresponding  chasm  in  the  wall 
of  the  gallery  showed  whence  it  had  fallen. 

Beatrice  stood  for  a  moment  viewing  this 
scene  in  wonder  and  dismay,  and  then  a  sud 
den  horror  seized  upon  her,  and  she  called 
sharply  : 

"  Mr.  Chappelleford !  Oh  !  speak,  if  you  are 
here !" 

'  Who  is  it  ?"  asked  a  voice  dim  with 
anguish — a  voice  that  seemed  to  come  from 
beneath  the  huge  mass  of  rock,  and  to  feel  its 
weight  in  every  tone. 

Her  muscles  tense  with  horror,  her  eyes 
ivild  with  dread  of  what  they  must  behold, 
Beatrice  passed  between  the  rock  and  the  side 
of  the  gallery,  and  came  upon  a  sight  that 
!iad  well-nigh  killed  her  as  she  stood.  Her 
husband  lay  beneath  that  crushing  weight, 
only  his  head,  his  right  arm,  and  a  small  por 
tion  of  his  chest  visible — the  rest  of  his  body 


THE   SHADOW   OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


133 


mercifully  hidden,  save  that  a  slow  stream  of 
blood  trickled  out  from  beneath  the  rock,  and 
stagnated  in  a  ghastly  pool  beside  her  feet. 

Unable  to  stand,  unable  to  speak,  Beatrice 
sank   down   beside  that  livid  head,  and  fel 
that  the  horror  which  had  led  her  so  far  hac 
culminated  here,  and  that  the  worst  was  upoi 
her. 

"  Is  it  you,  Beatrice  ?"  whispered  the  whit 
lips  of  the  dying  man. 

"  Yes.  I  must  go  for  help.  But  -what  help 
can  move  this  rock  ?" 

"  None.  Do  not  go.  I  should  be  dead  long 
before  you  could  return.  Sit  quietly  there 
and  see  me  off.  I  have  been  thinking  of  you 
I  am  glad  you  came." 

"  But  something  must  be  done—  we  must  at 
all  events  try,"  gasped  Beatrice,  wringing  her/ 
hands  and  looking  piteously  at  the  tons  (ft 
torture  piled  upon  that  poor  crushed  bodyt 

"  Nothing  can  be  done.  Do  not  speiflc  of 
that  again.  It  is  the  ichthyosaurus./ He  is 
on  this  surface  next  me,  and  he  is  lost.  The 
roof  is  too  low  to  admit  of  turning/the  rock4 
and  they  cannot  blast  without  miryinj 
besides  they  will  never  take  the  poujrf 
•wish  you  could  have  seen  it,  anq.-^nen  you 
could  describe  it  in  the  work  upon  Saurians. 
I  want  you  to  finish  that  book,  Beatrice.  I 
am  afraid  you  could  not  manage  the  philology, 
although  you  would  have  helped  me  amazing 
ly.  You  n.ay  give  the  papers  collected  for  that 
to  Arnold,  and  let  him  see  what  he  can  do.  I 
won't  play  dog  in  the  manger.  It  is  getting 
very  cold  here.  Beatrice,  I  am  sorry  I  told 
the  story  of  the  monkey — it  was  not  courteous, 
and  your  manner  toward  me  has  always  been 

perfect " 

"Oh  !  sir,  I  wished  my  heart  had  been  more 
BO,"  sighed  Beatrice,  and  she  stooped  to  press 
her  cold  lips  upon  the  colder  forehead  of  the 
dying  man. 

"  Nonsense.  Your  heart,  child — it  is  a  mus 
cle,  nothing  more.  You  have  been  all  to  me 
that  1  wished  or  asked.  I  was  vexed  at  you 
to-day,  because  I  thought  you  were  past  such 
follies  as  you  hinted,  and  when  I  am  dead, 
I  suppose  you  will  relapse  completely,  and 
marry  this  man,  and  prattle  of  love  and  moon 
shine,  as  you  did  at  seventeen.  Well,  the 
time  grows  short — finish  the  Saurians  first. 
Promise  me  that  Beatrice." 

"  I  will  finish  it— I  promise  you." 
"  Before  you  marry  Brent  ?" 
"  I  shall  never  marry  again." 


"Pho!  nonsense.  And  perhaps,  after  all, 
Beatrice,  perhaps  it  is  as  well  for  you  women. 
I  thought  I  could  place  you  above  your  sex. 
and  I  have  ;  but  it  is  an  isolation— love,  kisses] 
dress,  cooking,  babies,  they  are  your  natural 
delights,  and  you  miss/them.  It  was  an  ex 
periment,  and  I  shall /hake  no  more." 

"Dear  friend  apd  teacher!  Forsyte  me 
that  I  have  not  be^er  rewarded  your  alnfe for 
give  me  that  Ufeve  not  held  myse^fs/eadfast 
in  your  path/  But  this  is  not  th/ moment  to 
think  of  m/  Tell  me,  have  y/U  no  message, 
no  trus^-Co  confide  to  me  ?" 

me.    My  worldly  aji&irs  are  in  order, 
•ou  know  all  my  plang.     If  not  what  other 
Jn   call    wife,   you  hrfve    been  a  dear  and 
/alued  comrade  to  ofe,  Beatrice.     I  have  not 

cared  to  say  how  dear " 

"  And,  O  my^fiend !  how  desolate  you  are 
leaving  me  Juried  Beatrice,  made  selfish  by 
despair.  >4)h  I  that  I  too  were  dying,  that  I 
mierhtidflow  you  to  that  other  world,  as  I  have 

.  this." 

'Other  world — do  you  believe  it,  dear?  I 
am  sorry  I  uprooted  that  simple  faith  of  yours, 
for  now  I  want  it.  Beatrice,  is  there  no  God  ?" 
"  Oh !  sir,  do  you  ask  me  ?" 
"  And  you  dare  not  answer !  It  is  my 
own  work,  my  own  work,  and  it  turns  upon 
me  now.  Woman,  it  is  for  you  to  hold  your 
faith  steadfast  and  shining  while  man  gropes 
blindly  through  the  labyrinth  of  reason.  It 
is  my  doing,  but  it  is  your  disgrace  that  you 
liave  not  a  word  of  comfort  for  me  now.  Oh !  if 
[  could  hear  my  mother  praying  beside  me  as 
[  heard  her  once  when  I  was  a  child,  and  as 
she  thought  dying.  She  begged  my  life  of 
God  that  night  so  piteously,  so  passionately, 
that  He  gave  it  her.  If  she  were  here,  she 
would  beg  my  soul's  life  even  more  fervently." 
But  you  do  not  believe — you  derided  mv 
aith — you  reasoned  away  my  hope — you 
•ooted  out  all  the  pious  teaching  of  my 
youth,"  moaned  Beatrice,  writhing  beneath 
he  sense  of  her  own  powerlessness  in  this  ex- 
remity. 

"  To  reason,  and  deride,  and  uproot  were 
my  gifts  ;  yours  should  have  been  to  cling  fast 
to  your  faith.  If  only  I  had  my  mother  here — 
my  mother — how  her  eyes  shone  as  she  lifted 
hem  heavenward !  Where  is  she  now  ?  Do 
rou  believe,  do  I  believe,  that  saintly  woman 
s  mere  dust  and  daisies?  O  Beatrice.  B«-a 
rice  1  speak  a  word  of  hope — tell  me  that  dear 
mother  lives,  and  I  shall  see  her— tell  me  J 


134 


THE  SHADOW   OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


am  not  going  to  annihilation — what,  lose  all 
that  I  have  learned  so  painfully ! — this  mind, 
this  memory,  these  heaped  thoughts,  all  going 
to  oblivion  in  one  brief  hour  !  O  woman  1 
argue  with  me,  force  belief  upon  me — at  the 
least,  pray  for  me — pray — pray — call  upon 
God  to  shine  in  upon  the  black  despair  which 
overwhelms  me !  O  woman !  if  you  are  a 
woman  indeed,  like  those  who  lay  the  night 
through  at  the  foot  of  the  cross,  say  one  word 
of  prayer  to  God,  for  I — I  dare  not !" 

And  kneeling  there,  hor  head  humbly  down 
dropt,  her  voice  choked  with  anguish  and 
terror  for  his  soul  and  for  her  own,  Beatrice 
faintly  murmured  the  words  that  she  had 
learned,  an  innocent  child,  long  years  before, 
and  had  never  spoken  since  her  marriage. 

"  Amen  !"  whispered  the  white  lips  of  the 
dying  man,  and  then  death  laid  his  finger 
upon  them,  and  they  spoke  no  more. 


CHAPTER  LIT. 
RUTH'S  BETROTHAL. 

SHE  knew  that  he  was  dead,  and  yet  she 
sat  there  dumb  and  motionless,  her  face  white 
and  still  as  his,  her  eyes  fixed,  her  mind  wan 
dering  through  time  and  eternity,  she  knew 
not  whither. 

Through  all  the  chaos  into  which  her  life 
seemed  of  a  sudden  fallen,  one  thought  alone 
rose  definite  and  undeniable.  He,  that  dead 
man  there,  the  man  toward  whom  she  had 
assumed  such  solemn  and  unending  duties, 
he  had  asked  her  for  comfort  in  his  dying 
moments,  for  a  word  of  faith,  or  promise,  or 
supplication,  and  she  had  none  to  give  him. 
not  one.  No  comfort  for  him,  none  for  her 
self  were  she  too  dying — not  even  the  poor  cry 
of  unreasoning  belief.  And  this  was  the  re 
sult  then  of  life,  this  the  end  toward  which 
she  had  so  arduously  toiled,  this  the  grand 
result  of  philosophy,  and  intellect,  and  intel 
ligent  theory  as  opposed  to  blind  faith.  He, 
her  teacher,  and  the  most  learned  man  she 
had  ever  known,  the  profoundest  thinker,  the 
clearest  reason er,  the  most  fearless  theorist 
and  analyzer,  he  had  died  longing  to  hear  his 
mother's  voice  interceding  with  God  for  the 
soul  of  her  unbelieving  child.  Was  this  the 
end  of  such  men  ?  Must  such  an  end  be  hers 
ere  long? 

So  she  sat,  while  the  minutes  and  the  hours 
went  by,  and  the  twilight  gave  place  tonight, 
and  the  toad  and  bat  and  slimy  creeping 


things  came  softly  up  to  glide  about  her  feet, 
and  stare  at  the  glittering  pool  of  blood,  and 
flash  their  moist  skins  and  evil  eyes  in  the  dim 
light,  and  creep  in  beneath  the  stone  which 
had  crushed  out  that  life  but  now  so  full  of 
power  and  thought. 

And  she,  never  seeing  them,  sat  motionless 
beside  her  dead,  and  learned  from  his  dumb 
lips  such  teaching  as,  living,  he  never  had 
been  capable  of  giving. 

They  found  her  there  as  the  night  wore  on, 
Marston  Brent  and  the  rest,  and  gathered 
about  her  with  broken  exclamations  of  pity 
and  dismay.  Brent  it  was  who  raised  her  in 
his  arms  and  carried  her  forth  to  the  living 
world  once  more.  He  did  not  speak,  and  sue 
said  only  : 

"  Bring  me  to  your  Ruth." 

And  iu  Ruth's  arms  he  left  her. 

With  infinite  labor  they  raised  the  great 
stone,  and  drew  the  poor  broken  body  from 
beneath  it,  then  let  it  fall,  and  shudderingly 
left  it,  the  imprint  of  the  antediluvian  mon 
ster  soaked  in  the  blood  of  the  man  of  latest 
science  who  had  sought  to  steal  his  secret. 
The  monster  had  conquered,  and  he  lies  there 
to-day  even  more  secure  from  molestation  than 
when  the  dead  man  first  discovered  him. 

They  bore  the  body  forth,  and  the  next  day 
buried  it  with  the  Christian  ordinances  which 
the  philosopher,  despising  in  life,  had  clung 
to  in  death,  and  let  us  hope  that  the  sleep  to 
which  they  laid  him  shall  end  in  the  light  of 
clearest  day. 

A  week  passed  away,  and  then  Brent  asked 
an  audience  of  his  guest,  who  had  never  yet 
left  the  room  whither  he  had  carried  her  from 
the  mine. 

He  found  her  calm,  pale,  and  silent,  receiv 
ing  such  words  of  sympathy  as  he  could  offer 
almost  without  reply,  and  seeming  to  half 
forget  his  presence  even  while  he  sooke. 

At  last  he  said  : 

"  I  trust  you  will  not  doubt  my  pleasure  in 
retaining  you  beneath  my  roof,  or  my  desire 
to  leave  you  time  to  recover  from  this  great 
shock  before  you  are  troubled  with  outward 
matters,  but  I  think  it  right  to  tell  you  that  I 
am  about  to  journey  to  Milvor  with  Ruth, 
that  her  affairs  there  may  be  permanently  set 
tled,  and  if  you  think  best  to  go  with  us " 

"  Yes,  I  will  go.  I  wish  to  go  to  Milvor," 
interrupted  Beatrice,  catching  at  the  name. 

"  I  thought  it  likely,  and  perhaps  you  will 
suffer  less  in  the  journey  now  than  after  a 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


135 


while.     The  first  effect  of  such  a  blow  is  apa 
thy,  the  anguish  comes  later." 

"  How  do  you  know,  Marston  Brent  ?  You 
never  have  suffered  '  such  a  blow,'  "  exclaimed 
Beatrice  almost  fiercely. 

"  My  life  has  not  been  desolated  by  death, 
but  I  have  suffered,"  said  Brent  quietly,  and 
without  waiting  for  a  reply,  he  recounted  the 
preparations  he  had  made  for  the  journey,  and 
mentioned  the  day  and  hour  in  which  he  pro 
posed  to  set  forth. 

Beatrice  listened  to  all  without  raising  her 
heavy  eyes  or  making  any  remark.  When  he 
had  done,  she  only  said  : 

"  Do  as  you 'think  best.  All  I  wish  is  to  be 
at  Milvor,  and  hidden  from  the  world." 

"  In  another  week  you  will  be  there,  and 
may  you  find  the  rest  you  seek.  Poor  Bea 
trice  !''  said  Brent  softly,  and  so  left  her  to  the 
solitude  she  seemed  to  crave. 

In  the  passage  he  met  Ruth,  who  hesitat 
ingly  said  : 

"  Can  I  speak  with  you  a  moment,  sir  ?" 

"  Certainly.  Come  into  the  office,"  said 
Brent ;  and  when  the  door  was  closed  :  "  Well, 
Ruthie  ?" 

•'  I  thought  it  best  to  tell  you  myself,  sir, 
that  I  have  about  concluded  to  marry  Paul," 
said  Ruth,  turning  very  pale,  and  leaning 
against  the  corner  of  the  heaw  table  in  the 
centre  of  the  room. 

"  Indeed  !  Why,  Ruth,  I  thought— he  told 
me,  in  fact,  that  you  had  refused  him,  or  nearly 
so,"  said  Brent  in  sudden  bewilderment,  for 
out  of  Paul  Freeman's  bitter  revealings  and 
Ruth's  own  artless  confessions,  and  the  des 
perate  need  of  his  own  heart,  he  had  built  a 
shadowy  scheme  for  the  future,  hardly  con 
fessed  as  yet  even  to  himself,  but  growing 
every  day  more  clear  and  certain. 

"  I  thought  you  did  not  love  Paul,  Ruthie," 
said  he  again  as  the  irl  stood  mute  and  white 
before  him. 

"He  loves  me  very  much  indeed,  sir,  and 
perhaps  tliat  is  better  than  for  me  to  love  him, 
and  he  not  care  any  thing  about  me."  said 
Ruth,  with  hidden  fire. 

"  Why,  yes,  I  suppose  so  ;  and  yet,  Ruth,  if 
you  do  not  love  him,  or  if  you  could  love 
some  one  else  now,  do  not  be  in  sue'  haste. 
Wait  a  little,  and ' 

"No,  sir,  I  don't  want  to  wait — that's  just 
what  I  had  rather  not  do,"  replied  the  girl,  so 
vehemently  that  even  Brent  suspected  a  hid 


den  meaning  in  her  word's,  and  after  a  mo 
ment's  thought  took  her  hand,  saying  : 

"  Ruth,  my  dear,  you  must  explain  this. 
What  has  happened  to  make  you  angry  and 
doubtful  of  me  ?  What  has  Paul  been  saying 
to  you  ?" 

"  He  says,  sir,  that  you  were  going  to— to 
take  pity  on  me  —  because  —  because  —  you 
thought  I  liked  you,  and  that  now  you  will  be 
sorry,  but  you  will  keep  to  the  promise  you 
have  made  yourself  because  you  are  so  strict 
in  keeping  your  word ;  but — but  I'd  rather  a 
great  deal  that  you  should  not,  sir." 

"  Paul  has  done  very  wrong,  and  hagjghown 
himself  dishonorable  in  putting  such  ideas  in 
your  head,"  said  Brent  in  much  displeasure. 
"  If  I  have  for  a  moment  dreamed  of  asking 
you  to  be  my  wife,  it  was  hoping  to  receive 
as  much  happiness  as  I  could  give,  but  I  have 
never  put  the  idea  in  words  to  Paul  or  to  my 
self,  and " 

"  And  please  don't  do  it  now,  sir,  for  indeed 
I  had  rather  not,"  hastily  interposed  Ruth, 
her  cheeks  aflame. 

"  Then  I  will  not ;  but  tell  me  why  not  now 
as  well  as  some  weeks  ago,  when  I  spoke  of 
this  matter  with  Paul  f ' 

"  Because,  sir,  Mrs.  Chappelleford  is  a  wid 
ow  now,  and  though  you  might  ask  me  to 
marry  you,  and  try  to  feel  contented,  you 
never  would  forget  the  chance  you  lost  for  me, 
and  I  should  know  it,  and  I  should  suffer 
more  than — than — and  I  had  rather  marry 
Paul,  who  loves  me  truly  and  wholly,  and 
never  has  loved  any  one  else." 

She  turned  toward  the  door,  and  laid  her 
hand  upon  the  latch,  yet  lingered  with  down 
cast  eyes  and  quick-throbbing  heart,  lingered 
for  his  reply.  It  came  : 

"Ruth,  can  you  believe  that  never  until  this 
moment  have  I  connected  the  thought  of 
Mrs.  Chappelleford's  widowhood  with  any 
possible  advantage  to  myself,  never  until  you 
yourself  suggested  it  ?  And,  Ruth,  had  you 
accepted  the  offer  I  was  about  to  make  to  you 
I  never  should  have  associated  the  two  ideas, 
for  having  once  given  my  faith  to  you,  I  hum 
bly  trust  that  there  is  nothing  in  my  nature 
so  base  that  I  could  have  broken  it,  ev<-n  in 
thought.  I  say,  Ruth,  had  I  been  your  prom 
ised  husband,  those  words  of  yours  would 
have  been  of  no  effect.  But  now " 

"  But  now  that  I  have  suggested  it,  you  see 
that  you  love  her,  and  only  her,"  cried  Ruth 
in  a  sharp,  passionate  voice. 


13G 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


"  No.  I  have  so  long1  and  so  resolutely  di 
connected  Beatrice  Chappelleford,  wife  of  an 
other  man,  from  Beatrice  Wansted,  whom 
loved  devotedly,  that  I  may  boldly  say  I  d 
not  love  her  now,  and  had  her  husband  livec 
or  had  I  bound  myself  to  you  or  anothe 
woman,  I  never  should  have  loved  her,  othe 
than  as  the  angels  love.  But  now,  Ruth,  wer 
I  to  become  your  husband,  I  cannot  promise 
I  cannot  be  sure  that  I  should  never  remem 
ber  her.  I  do  not  wish  to  speak  to  her  of  love 
but  the  thought  of  her  might  come  between 
me  and  other  love.  I  cannot  be  certain — 
I  dare  not  bind  myself." 

"  And  you  shall  not  to  me,  Mr.  Brent.  My 
mind  is  quite  made  up,  and  I  am  going  to  give 
Paul  Freeman  his  answer  this  minute.  I  am 
BO  sorry  that  you  fancied  I  cared,  for  thougl 
I  am  very,  very  grateful  for  all  your  kindness 

I  never  thought,  I  am  sure " 

"  There,  child,  there !  Say  no  more.  We 
understand  each  other  now,  and  for  all  our 
lives  you  are  my  dear  sister,  friend,  daughter, 
in  one.  Perhaps  all  that  I  shall  ever  find  of 
woman's  love  is  what  Paul  will  spare  to  me 
from  the  treasure  you  will  bring  him." 

And  Ruth  without  reply,  without  turning 
her  face  toward  him,  left  the  room,  and  find 
ing  Paul,  threw  herself  into  his  arms,  sob 
bing: 

"  There,  take  me,  Paul,  take  me  and  com 
fort  me." 


CHAPTER  LIIL 
A  LITTLE  CREEPING   FLAME. 

NIGHT  fell  sombre  and  starless — one  of 
the  dark,  breathless  nights  of  summer,  when 
the  perfume  of  the  flowers  seems  to  cling 
close  to  the  earth,  too  languid,  too  oppressed 
by  its  own  sweetness  to  rise  heavenward ; 
when  the  straining  eyes  find  themselves 
unable  to  penetrate  rthe  .dense  blackness  of 
the  atmosphere,  and  the  ears,  growing  pre- 
ternaturally  acute,  seem  to  discover  a  strange 
and  mysterious  meaning  in  the  cries  of  insect 
and  night-bird — seem  to  listen  to  a  half-re- 
vealed  secret  in  every  sigh  of  the  fitful  wind, 
every  whisper  among -the  invisible  foliage  of 
the  trees  :  nights  filled  with  melancholy  and 
with  electricity,  when  a  sadness,  equally  with 
out  explanation -and  -without  remedy,  weighs 
upon  the  spirit, -and  wakes  in  its  profoundest 
depths  vague  memories,  regrets,  longings,  but 
half  understood,  half  believed,  and  yet  more 


real  than  the  grossest  realism  of  daylight,  for 
they  are  the  voice  of  the  soul  struggling  to  as 
sert  itself  without  the  limitations  of  mind  and 
body ;  they  are  the  utterances  of  the  life  that 
lies  hidden  deep  within  the  recesses  of  every 
man's  existence — hint  of  the  life  hereafter  to 
be  developed  from  this  germ  which  every  one 
of  us  carries  within  him,  and  yet  so  seldom 
recognizes. 

Sombre  and  starless  fell  the  night,  and  the 
dense  shadow  of  Moloch  Mountain,  stretching 
across  the  valley  and  the  wood,  touched  the 
distant  hill-side  and  the  lonely  grave  where 
Mary  Brewster  lay  asleep,  with  her  murdered 
husband  at  her  side— that  hillside  upon  whose 
green  slope  the  farewell  glance  of  that  hus 
band  had  dwelt,  as  he  rode  fortli   from  his 
own  door,  and  went  to  meet  his  doom  ;  and 
then  the  shadow  crept  on  and  clung  about 
the    old    house    beyond,   wrapping    it   close 
and  fatally  as  the  veil  is  wrapped  about  the 
liead   and   shoulders    of   the    doomed   slave 
ed    from  her  luxurious  harem  to  her  cold 
bed  beneath  the  Bosphorus.     The  old  house, 
dreary  and  lonely  in  its  best  estate,  and  in 
these  latter  days  showing  a  desolation  and  a 
doom   in  its  every  faltering  line,  every  un 
shuttered  and  staring  window,  in  the  atmos 
phere  that   seemed   to  cling    like   a  visible 
curse  about    it.     Within,   sat    the   wife    of 
Joachim  Brewster,  deserted  now  of  him  as  of 
all   mankind,  and  left  alone  in  that  melan- 
:holy  house — alone,  yet  never  alone,  for  the 
memories  of  the  past  and  the  terrors  of  the 
"uture  were  there,  and  never  left  her — sitting 
beside  her  at  hearth   or   board,  lying  down 
vith  her  upon  the  haunted  couch,  waking  her 
emorselessly  to  the  dawning  of  a  new  day  of 
orment.      She  had  not    seen    her    thirtieth 
lirthday,  this  woman,  and  yet  her  hair  was 
vhite,  her  skin  cadaverous,  her  limbs  falter- 
ng   and  distorted.     She  hatl  lived  fast  with 
hese   constant  companions  of  hers,  and  the 
ife  was  telling  upon  her.    But  chief  among  her 
orments  was  a  shadowy  horror — intangible, 
et  none  the  less  real ;  forever  near,  yet  never 
ithin  her  reach  ;  never  seen,  yet  never  to  be 
luded — a    presence    at    her    side,   although 
either  eye  nor  hand  discovered  other  than 
mpty  air — a  something  waiting  jnst  behind 
ach  door  she   opened   in   the   dreary  house, 
urking  in  every  shadow,  waiting  for  her  in 
er  chamber  as  she  crept  stealthily  up-stairs 
o  bed,  sitting  close  beside  her  in  the  dark- 
ess  of  the  night,  mingling  with  the  shadows 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


137 


of  tlie  dawn  when  the  weary  night  was 
through — a  something  tormenting  her  with  a 
sense  of  being  just  beyond  her  range  of  vision, 
seeming,  however  sharply  she  might  turn 
upon  it,  to  be  just  gone  from  the  spot  at  which 
sli e  looked,  just  visible  at  some  point  behind 
or  beside  her,  if  she  could  but  reach  it  soon 
enough  ;  for  here  was  the  horrible  fascination 
of  this  horror — while  dreading  nothing  so 
much  as  to  encounter  it,  she  yet  must  spend 
her  whole  life  in  its  pursuit,  waiting,  watch 
ing,  with  bated  breath  and  staring  eyes,  now 
wandering  from  room  to  room,  now  sitting 
motionless — struggling,  as  a  drowning  man 
struggles  for  breath,  to  overcome  this  forever 
receding  and  invisible  barrier  behind  which 
Ler  tormentor  hid.  So  she  sat  sometimes  the 
•whole  night  through,  sleepless  and  vigilant, 
her  ears  alive  to  the  dim,  uncertain  sounds  that 
filled  the  remoter  chambers  of  the  empty  house, 
her  unresting  eyes  following  with  fierce  and 
hungry  glances  that  formless  presence  forever 
eluding  their  pursuit. 

So  she  sat,  while  the  night  fell  sombre  and 
starless,  while  the  shadow  of  the  mountain 
stretched  across  the  valley  and  the  wood 
laid  a  finger  upon  the  hill-side  graves,  and 
then  crept  on,  spreading  itself  like  a  black 
pall  around  and  above  the  doomed  house,  and 
stealing  shade  by  shade  through  the  room 
where  she,  the  woman  sat,  crouched  in  the 
farthest  corner,  watching  and  waiting,  her 
white  face  and  gleaming  eyes  showing  in 
ghastly  contrast  upon  the  sombre  background 
of  the  wall. 

A  sullen  fire  was  dying  npon  the  hearth, 
the  last  charred  stick  flickering  and  black 
ening  above  the  gray  ashes  of  the  rest,  then 
breaking  in  the  centre,  and  falling,  over  half 
extinguished  by  the  fall,  the  other  rolling 
across  the  hearth,  and  resting  upon  the  edge 
of  the  boards  beyond.  Opposite  the  fireplace 
stood  the  old  brass-bound  secretary  where 
Peleg  Brewster  had  kept  the  will  that  his 
wife  had  so  often  urged  him  to  destroy,  the 
picture  of  his  wife  Mary,  with  the  letters  that 
she  had  written  him  before  their  marriage. 
So  often  she  had  seen  him  sit  there,  his  head 
upon  his  hand,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  little 
drawer  where  she  knew  these  treasures  lay— 
his  sorrowful,  introspective  eyes,  that  never 
had  met  her  own  with  love,  so  often  with  re 
proof.  The  picture  and  the  letters  were  there 
still— she  never  had  dared  look  at  them  but 
once— and  the  other  things  too  lay  just  as  he 


had  left  them.  She  would  almost  as  soon  have 
opened  his  coffin  as  open  that  secretary,  for  it 
still  was  his,  his  very  own. 

His  ?  Whose  ?  That  shadow's  that  flitted 
over  and  past  it,  now  seeming  to  sink  through 
the  solid  wood,  now  swiftly  gliding  aside  or 
upward,  to  lose  itself  in  the  obscure  corners 
of  the  room  ?  What  was  it  ?  Not  a  shadow, 
for  the  night  had  fallen,  and  the  room  was 
black-dark,  save  for  a  creeping  bluish  tongue 
of  flame  fastening  upon  the  floor  where  it 
joined  the  hearth,  and  a  strange  light  that 
seemed  to  her  to  float  about  the  old  secretary — 
the  secretary,  as  much  Peleg  Brewster's  own 
possession  still  as  was  the  coffin  wherein  hia 
murdered  body  mouldered.  Was  this  light 
then  the  thing  that  so  long  had  troubled  her  ? 
Was  it  the  light  or  something  which  it  present 
ly  would  disclose  ?  Was  that  a  form  j  ust  dis 
appearing  behind  the  end  of  the  secretary — no, 
at  the  other  side — where  ?  Gone  ?  No,  but 
coming,  growing  within  that  light,  taking 
form  and  shape,  and  then  disappearing  when 
she  turned  to  watch  it.  Disappearing  and 
again  appearing,  as  it  had  always  done  through 
all  these  weary  years,  the  years  since — well, 
since  what  ?  She  did  not  know  now,  but 
it  was  no  matter,  for  that  thing  was  just 
about  to  disclose  itself— surely,  surely  it  was 
about  to  confront  her  at  last,  and  what  would 
it  be?  Those  sorrowful,  stern  eyes?  Did 
they  look  at  her  out  of  that  shadow — nay,  that 
light  ?  Well,  light  or  shadow,  what  matter? 
Why  must  even  that  remain  a  bewildering 
doubt,  vexing  her  with  its  unending  ques* 
tion  ?  Light  or  shadow,  IT  was  there,  more 
nearly  visible  than  ever  it  had  been  before  ; 
and  now  she  could  grapple  with  it,  demand 
its  meaning,  deny  its  accusations,  retort  its 
reproaches.  But  no,  no,  it  was  gone  again, 
hiding  in  the  farthest  corner  of  the  room, 
creeping  along  the  walls,  brooding  above  her 
head,  wrapped  in  this  cloud  of  hot,  stifling 
smoke,  crouching  behind  her.  Behind  her? 
Why,  how  could  that  be,  when  she  was  press, 
ing  back  against  the  wall  with  all  her  might  1 
for  it  must  not  get  behind  her,  she  could  not 
endure  that — and,  no,  it  was  not  near  her  now, 
but  flashing  angry  glances  from  behind  this 
cloud  which  wrapped  it  and  the  secretary, 
and  the  room,  and  crowded  down  so  fiercely 
upon  her  breath,  almost  stifling  her  beneath  its 
awful  pressure.  Such  red,  fiery  glances,  such 
consuming  and  withering  wrath  as  they 
flashed  upon  her!  Was  it  coming  at  last 


138 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


then,  coming  in  visible  presence  to  seize  upon 
her,  helpless  and  unheard,  with  no  chance  to 
struggle  or  retort  V  And  what  were  those 
words  the  minister  said  the  last  time  she  ven 
tured  within  the  church  ?  Something  about 
the  "  worm  that  never  dies,  and  the  fire  which 
is  not  quenched."  The  fire  which  is  not 
quenched,  is  this  it — this  scorching  and  de 
vouring  flame  which  creeps  along  the  floor, 
and  climbs  the  walls,  and  reaches  out  its  long 
tongues  toward  her?  And  now  it  sinks,  and 
now  it  rises,  and  she,  huddled  there  in  the 
farthest  corner,  sits  glaring  at  it,  and  drawing 
her  garments  closer  about  her,  and  cowering 
to  the  wall  which  shuts  her  in,  yet  opens  to 
shut  out  that  Thing,  which  haunts  her  even 
in  the  flames,  until,  as  one  long  serpent-tongue 
sweeps  out  and  fastens  upon  her  clothes,  she 
breaks  into  maddest  frenzy,  shouting,  laugh 
ing,  screaming,  rushing  recklessly  forward  to 
meet  and  defy  the  foe  she  thinks  to  have 
found  at  last,  and  who  wraps  her  about  in  his 
fiery  mantle,  and  scorches  the  breath  upon  her 
lips,  the  blood  within  her  veins  ! 


When  morning  dawned,  and  old  Moloch, 
drawing  toward  himself  the  shadow  that  had 
wrapped  the  scene,  looked  across  valley  and 
forest  to  the  grave  upon  the  hill-side,  he  saw 
beyond  them  a  heap  of  smoking  and  smoul 
dering  ruins  which  no  human  being  had  yet 
approached,  although  the  scene  was  not  with 
out  its  mourners,  for  a  gaunt  hound  sat  beside 
the  blackened  doorsteps,  howling  dismally, 
and  upon  the  blasted  pine  behind  the  house 
hung,  flapping  and  croaking,  a  pair  of  carrion- 
crows. 


CHAPTER  LIV. 
PENANCE. 

To  Beatrice,  sheltered  in  her  childhood's 
home,  safe  and  quiet  in  the  guardianship  of 
her  aunt,  who,  if  she  did  not  understand,  at 
least  did  not  interfere  with  her,  came  after  a 
time  her  uncle's  wife,  with  not  insincere  ex 
pressions  of  sympathy  and  affection,  and  an 
urgent  request  that  Mrs.  Chappelleford  should 
return  with  her  to  town,  and  accept  a  home 
beneath  her  uncle's  roof.  But  Beatrice  shook 
her  head,  smiling  sadly : 

"  Thank  you  very  much,  Juanita,  and  thank 
my  dear  uncle,  too,  but  I  cannot  come  at 
present ;  I  am  busy  here." 

"  Busy,  my  dear  child  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Bar- 


stow,  glancing  around  the  '  quiet  chamber 
with  incredulous  surprise. 

"  Yes,  busy  in  settling  my  life." 

"  But  that  is  just  what  we  want  to  do  for 
you — to  settle  your  life.  Come  to  us,  and  that 
will  settle  it." 

"  I  don't  mean  that  sort  of  life,"  said  Be 
atrice  quietly.  "  I  am  trying  to  understand — 
but  no  matter  now." 

As  her  voice  drearily  died  away,  and  her 
eyes  sought  the  distant  hills  where  the  sun 
shine  lay  brightly,  although  the  country 
between  was  all  in  shadow,  Mrs.  Barstow 
looked  at  her  with  quiet  worldly  scrutiny. 

"  My  dear,"  said  she,  "  I  would  not  do  it." 

"  Do  what  ?" 

"  Either  of  the  two  tilings  you  have  in 
mind — either  marry  Marston  Brent  or  become 
devout.  Neither  will  suit  you  as  well  as  the 
role  of  belle  esprit  you  have  so  successfully 
played  since  your  marriage  with  my  uncle 
Chappelleford.  You  are  too  young,  too  hand 
some,  and  too  brilliant  for  a  devote;  and  as  for 

Mr.  Brent That  reminds  me  to  thank  you, 

Trix,  for  saving  me  from  an  awful  stupidity. 
If  you  had  not  been  with  me  when  Major 
Strangford  came  home,  I  might  have  gone 
into  some  sentimental  nonsense  with  him — it 
was  quite  on  the  cards.  But  you  helped  me 
over  the  first  danger,  and  after  that  I  reflected 
— why  really  it  would  have  been  very  foolish 
— and  I  found,  on  a  second  look,  that  he  had 
gone  off  immensely,  quite  broken  up,  and 
passe  indeed.  And,  that  danger  over,  there 
was  no  chance  of  another  ;  for  a  good  house, 
as  many  carriages  as  I  choose,  and  a  husband 
with  a  hundred  thousand  a  year,  are  ever  so 
much  better  than  moonlight  and  Tennyson, 
as  I  dare  say  you  knew  when  you  advised 
against  the  Major.  And  really  Mr.  Barstow 
and  I  am  very  comfortable  together  ;  he  is  a 
prince  for  generosity,  and  as  indulgent  as  pos 
sible.  He  has  never  spoken  a  cross  word 
since  we  were  married,  Beatrice." 

"  Dear,  good  uncle  Israel !  And  is  he  happy, 
Juanita?" 

"  I  mean  to  make  him  so,  and  I  think  I  do. 
I  always  consult  him  before  ordering  dinner, 
and  never  object  to  his  inviting  his  stupid  old 
merchants,  and  smoking  in  the  library.  And 
actually,  my  dear,  I  find  that  I  am  growing 
almost  domestic  in  my  tastes.  Having  no 
girls  to  bring  out,  I  have  not  the  ties  to  soci 
ety  that  most  married  women  have ;  and— 
now  don't  you  laugh — I  positively  enjoy  a 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


139 


game  of  whist  occasionally,  and  even  a  '  h 
at  backgammon,'  as  Mr.  Barstow  calls  it.  An 
I  make  it  a  positive  duty  to  give  him  a  littl 
music  after  dinner,  almost  every  evening1,  an 
he  likes  going  to  the  theatre  with  me.  So,  a 
together,  Trix,  I  count  myself  a  model  wife — 
quite  a  Grizelda  in  fact,  and  I  think  your  uu 
cle  would  tell  you  the  same  story." 

"  I  am  very  glad,  very  glad  indeed,  Juanita 
for  I  never  knew  a  man  who  deserved  bette 
of  his  wife  and  his  home  than  my  uncle  Is 
rael,"  said  Beatrice  warmly. 

And  the  elder  matron,  laughing  slyly,  in 
quired : 

"  Not  even  Marston  Brent  ?" 
"  Don't,  Juanita.     I  do  not  think  of  Mr 
Brent,  or  he  of  me.     My  mind  is  filled  witl 
other  matters,  and  he,  I  hope,  will  marry  Rutl 
Brewster." 

"  Beatrice,  I  want  to  ask  you  a  question 
\vill  you  answer  it  truly  ?" 
"Truly,  if  at  all." 

"  Your  old  Jesuitical  answer ;  but  n'importe 
When  I  told  you  that  I  was  afraid  to  meet 
Major  Strangford,  because  I  fancied  myself 
still  in  love  with  him,  you  almost  crushed  me 
with  your  virtuous  indignation  at  the  idea  of 
a  married  woman  being  in  love  with  any  one 
but  her  husband,  and,  if  I  remember,  you 
vowed  it  would  be  impossible  for  you  to  even 
imagine  such  a  thing.  Now,  Trix,  tell  me, 
after  you  had  stayed  three  weeks  under  the 
same  roof  with  Marston  Brent,  did  not  you 
change  your  mind  ?" 

And  as  Mrs.  Barstow  asked  her  searching 
question,  she  looked  keenly  into  that  pure, 
pale  face  so  steadily  set  toward  the  distant 
hills,  whose  shining  peace  was  reflected  in  the 
eyes  that  watched  them.  The  face  did  not 
droop,  the  calm  eyes  did  not  quail,  but  a  slow 
wave  of  color  mounted  through  cheek  and 
chin,  even  to  the  masses  of  bright  hair  coiled 
away  from  the  white  brow — mounted,  and 
burned,  and  faded  before  Beatrice  replied  ; 
then  she  said  : 

"  I  will  answer  you,  Juanita,  and  truly, 
though  to  my  own  shame.  The  armor  of 
which  I  so  presumptuously  boasted  to  you 
proved  of  no  avail  when  the  hour  of  trial 
came,  nor.  would  the  worldly  shield  which 
saved  you  have  proved  sufficient  for  me. 
Even  while  I  assured  myself  that  there  was 
no  danger,  the  danger  stood  face  to  face  with 
me,  and  all  my  defences  of  philosophy,  and 
reason,  and  intellect  dropped  away  like  flax 


within  the  fire,  and  left  me  simple,  defence 
less  woman." 

"Well,  what  then?  What  saved  you?" 
asked  Mrs.  Barstow  breathlessly. 

"  The  honor,  the  conscience,  the  Christian 
principle  of  Marston  Brent,"  said  Beatrice 
with  a  sudden  fervor  in  her  voice.  "  I  failed, 
and  he  upheld  me ;  I  was  simple,  and  he  re 
buked  me  ;  I  was  despairing,  and  he,  by  the 
noble  example  of  his  own  life,  taught  me  how 
to  live." 

"Then  you  acknowledged   to   each   other 
that  you  were  still  in  love  ?" 
"  Certainly  not." 
"  But  you  are,  aren't  you  1" 
"  Juanita,  you  are  profane.     You  grasp  at 
matters  of  which  you  should  not  even  speak." 
"Mercy  on  me!  Beatrice,  I  cannot  under 
stand  you  in  the  least,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bar 
stow  pettishly. 

"  I  know  it— I  do  not  understand  myself  as 
yet,  and  I  certainly  should  not  have  said  what 

I  have  to  you,  but  that " 

"  Well,  what  ?" 

"  I  considered  it  a  fitting  penance  for  my 
arrogance  when  I  spoke  to  you  before.  I  waa 
right  in  my  conclusions  then,  but  all  wrong 
n  my  reasoning,  and  more  than  wrong  in  my 
estimate  of  my  own  strength.  Now,  dear, 
et  us  speak  of  something  else,  and  lay  this 
iside  forever." 

"  And  you  will  not  come  to  town  with  me  ?'* 
"  No  thank  you,  Juanita." 
"  Or  join  us  in  the  winter  ?" 
"  No ;  I  have  done  with  life,  such  life  as 

hat,  and  I  shall  stay  in  Milvor  until " 

Juanita  waited  patiently,  but  the  sentence 
was  not  finished,  and  she  left  the  room. 


CHAPTER  LV. 

KEWARD. 

THE  summer  waned,  and  in  the  bright  au- 
umnal  days,  Beatrice  resumed  the  active 
ut-of-doors  life  she  had  so  much  enjoyed  dur- 
ig  her  girlhood.  Many  an  hour  she  spent 
pon  old  Moloch,  climbing  his  topmost  crest 
o  catch  the  first  rays  of  sunrise,  seeking  new 
oints  of  view  whence  to  admire  the  well-re 
membered,  well  -  beloved  landscape,  where 
Darkles  of  the  distant  sea  seemed  glimpses 
f  another  world,  with  promise  of  delights  not 
nown  of  this. 

But  best  she  loved,  in  the  melancholy,  golden 
ght  of  afternoon — those  autumn  afternoons 
hich  murmur,  in  their  sleep  upon  the  hills, 


140 


THE   SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


of  the  long,  dreamless  sleep  waiting  for  them 
beneath  the  snows  of  winter — to  sit  beside  the 
rushing  mill-brook,  half  choked  now  with 
gold  and  scarlet  and  rich  brown  leaves  whirled 
down  upon  it  from  the  trees  above  ;  and  sit 
ting  there,  she  dreamed — her  wistful  eyes 
fixed  upon  those  distant  sparkles  of  the  ocean, 
or  upon  the  sky  stooping  to  meet  it,  almost 
as  blue,  almost  as  bright,  and  holding  no  less 
of  promise,  dared  one  accept  it.  These 
dreams  ?  Sometimes  they  were  of  the  lands 
beyond  the  sea,  whither  she  had  already  wan 
dered,  and  might  some  day  return — sometimes 
of  fairer  possible  worlds  beyond  that  smiling 
sky — sometimes  of  her  own  life,  which  seemed, 
having  rounded  its  circle  of  experience,  to  be 
finishing  here  where  it  begun. 

And  then,  with  a  stifled  sigh,  Beatrice  would 
sometimes  look  about  her,  and  remember  the 
glow  and  glory  of  those  early  days,  and  the 
unreflecting  gayety  with  which  she  had  so 
often  trod  the  mountain-paths,  or  sat  here  be 
side  the  mill-brook,  and  not  alone. 

"  But  that  was  spring,  and  this  is  autumn," 
whispered  she  one  day,  and  fell  to  thinking 
of  the  two — spring,  so  full  of  promise  and  of 
growth  ;  crude,  raw,  and  untaught,  but  glow 
ing  with  hope  and  possibilities  that  make 
amends  for  all — autumn,  strong,  brilliant,  ma 
ture,  bringing  sheaves  and  fruit  instead  of 
buds  and  flowers,  and  yet  with  an  inexpressi 
ble  melancholy  in  its  glory,  tears  beneath  its 
smiles,  the  hint  of  approaching  death  in  all 
its  brilliant  coloring. 

'  And  this  is  autumn,"  repeated  Beatrice, 
slowly  rising  and  descending  the  hill,  until  in 
the  cloudy  glory  of  sunset  she  passed  between 
the  rows  of  box,  holding  her  breath  not  to  per 
ceive  their  fragrance,  and  entered  the  gray 
old  house  which  was  now  her  home. 

"  Where  have  you  been  all  the  afternoon, 
Beatrice?"  asked  her  aunt  from  her  seat  be 
side  the  fire  in  the  eastern  room.  "  We  have 
had  company.  Marston  Brent  has  been  here, 
and  waited  until  the  last  moment  to  see  you. 
He  came  East  on'  business,  and  ran  down  here 
for  the  afternoon.  He  was  very  sorry  not  to 
see  you." 

But  Beatrice,  with  a  sudden  faintness  upon 
her,  sat  suddenly  down  beside  her  aunt,  and 
did  not  reply.  Mrs.  Bliss,  busy  with  her 
story,  and  a  troublesome  stitch  in  her  knit 
ting,  went  on  without  looking  up. 

"  He  could  not  stay  because  he  had  to  at 
tend  a  directors'  meeting  in  the  city  to-morrow 


early,  and  was  to  start  for  home  in  the  after- 
noon  with  some  of  the  other  directors.  He 
has  got  a  company  to  take  his  mine — sold  it, 
I  suppose  ;  at  any  rate,  he  has  made  a  great 
deal  of  money,  and  don't  mean  to  stay  in 
Pennsylvania  always,  he  says  ;  he  thinks 
some  of  going  abroad." 

"  Does  he  ?"  said  Beatrice  with  an  effort. 

"  Yes,  as  soon  as  he  gets  matters  settled  out 
there.  I  believe  he  thinks  he  shall  stay  there 
this  winter.  That  Brewster  girl  and  Paul 
Freeman  are  going  to  be  married  at  Christ 
mas." 

"  Did  Mr.  Brent  say  so  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  and  old  Zilpah  is  dead.  Marston 
was  over  at  her  brother's  this  morning  to  tell 
them  about  it,  and  arrange  about  some  proper 
ty  Zilpah  left  them." 

"  Zilpah  dead  !  Why  did  she  ?"  asked  Be 
atrice,  over  whose  pallid  face  had  come  a  sud 
den  color. 

"  Why  did  she  ?  What  a  queer  question, 
Beatrice  !  Because  she  couldn't  help  it,  I  sup 
pose  ;  she  had  the  lung-fever  besides,"  said 
Mrs.  Bliss  dryly. 

"  Oh !  yes,  I  dare  say  ;  but,  aunt,  I  forgot  to 
ask  you  to  begin  some  knitting  for  me.  Can 
you  do  it  now  ?'' 

"  I  began  this  for  you,  child.  You  have 
grown  amazingly  industrious  lately.  You 
never  did  half  so  much  work  before  you  were 
married  as  you  do  now,  and  I  am  sure  you 
didn't  while  you  were  married." 

"  I  like  to  be  doing  something,"  said  Be 
atrice  with  a  brilliant  smile,  whose  meaning 
her  aunt  could  not  define. 

"  Well,  here  it  is  then,"  said  she,  holding 
out  the  stupendous  "  tidy "  she  had  com 
menced  ;  but  Beatrice  murmuring,  "  One  min 
ute,  aunty,"  left,  the  room,  and  appeared  no 
more  until  summoned  from  her  chamber  to 
the  tea  table. 

"  Seems  to  me  your  rage  for  knitting  was 
soon  over  this  afternoon,"  said  Mrs.  Bliss,  as 
she  handed  her  a  cup  of  tea. 

"  The  knitting?  Oh !  dear  me,  aunty,  I  for 
got  all  about  it !"  exclaimed  Beatrice  with 
such  a  laugh  and  such  a  blush  as  no  one  had 
seen  upon  her  face  for  many  a  month — nay, 
year. 

The  autumn  passed,  and  the  winter,  and  the 
spring.  Then  came  summer,  and  the  garden 
of  the  Old  Garrison  House  was  gay  with  all 
its  homely,  heartsome  bloom,  and  the  willow 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


141 


beside  the  river  had  donned  its  fullest  verdure, 
untouched  as  yet  by  dust,  or  worm,  or  decay, 
\vhen  Beatrice  one  morning1  thither  betook 
herself  and  her  book— a  volume  of  sweet,  rare 
old  Herbert. 

Her  days  of  mourning  were  over,  yet  faintly 
remembered  in  her  pure  white  dress,  with  a 
violet  ribbon  threading  her  golden  hair,  and 
knotted  at  her  throat ;  and  although  there 
was  no  mourning  in  her  face,  its  beauty  had 
taken  a  pensive  and  thoughtful  cast  in  this 
last  year,  not  farther  removed  from  the  light- 
hearted  grace  of  girlhood  than  from  the  cold 
and  somewhat  haughty  expression  most  often 
seen  upon  the  face  of  Vezey  Chappelleford's 
wife. 

So  sitting — the  unopened  book  upon  her 
lap,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  shining,  sunlit 
brook — she  heard  a  step  coming  down  the 
path  —  heard  and  knew  it,  and  would  not 
turn  until  Marston  Brent  stood  close  beside 
her — his  hand  outstretched — his  frank  eyes 
full  upon  her  face,  with  a  meaning  other  than 
ordinary  greeting  in  their  glance.  Then  she 
rose,  gave  her  hand — both  hands  indeed — and 
•while  the  words  of  courtesy  died  upon  her 
lips,  she  gave  him  welcome  with  all  her  glow 
ing  lace.  At  last,  seated  beside  her  upon  the 
rustic  bench,  so  carefully  kept  in  repair  be 
cause  he  had  made  it,  Marston  said 

"  Beatrice,  we  parted  here  six  years  ago." 

"Yes." 

"  Parted  forever,  as  we  thought." 

"  Yes  ;  you  said  so." 

"  I  ?    But  it  was  you  who  willed  it  I" 

"I?    No,  you!" 

"  Oh  !  never,  Beatrice !" 

"  Well,  then,  not  you.    But  I  wish  I  had 
known    you  thought    so   through   all   these 
years." 
»  "  Beatrice,  we  two  have  suffered " 

"  So  much !" 

"  And  erred,  both  of  us " 

"  Not  you." 

"  Yes,  I ;  I  might  have  yielded  something  in 
that  old  time." 

"  You  could  not,  and  remain  true  to  your 
self." 

"  You  have  not  blamed  me,  then  ?" 

"  No — no,  indeed." 

And  then  he  took  her  hand,  and  what  would 
next  have  been,  who  can  say,  when  the  spar 
row  who  all  this  time  had  watched  these  ter 
rible  interlopers  upon  her  domain  with  round 
black  eyes  shining  like  little  stars  above  the 


edge  of  her  nest,  fled  with  a  sudden  whirr  of 
wings,  which  startled  the  lovers,  and  brought 
a  laugh  to  relieve  the  somewhat  stringent 
pressure  of  the  moment. 

"  Beatrice,  are  '  any  birds  in  last  year's 
nest  ?' "  asked  Marston  softly,  as  he  glanced 
up  into  the  tree. 

"  Yes,  for  they  are  singing  in  my  heart  at 
this  moment,"  whispered  she. 

"  And  then " 

But  as  they  went  back  through  the  garden, 
Beatrice  paused  beside  the  heart-shaped  pansy- 
plot,  and  looking  into  her  lover's  face  with  a 
shy  smile,  said : 

"  There  were  two  large  purple  pansies  and 
one  yellow  one  on  the  ground  here,  one  morn 
ing,  and  now  they  are  pressed  between  the 
leaves  of  a  little  Bible  Beatrice  Wansted  used 
to  keep  upon  her  dressing-table." 

"  What !  you  found  them  and  saved  them, 
darling !"  exclaimed  Marston  in  pleased  sur 
prise.  "  I  looked  for  them  as  I  went  back, 
but  could  not  find  them.  The  willow  staff  I 
cut  that  morning,  however,  is  now  a  thriving 
tree  beside  the  Sachawissa.  I  wanted  to  carry 
a  cutting  to  Ironstone  Mountain,  but  I  dared 
not." 

"  You  were  always  better  than  I,"  said  Be 
atrice,  smiling  and  blushing.  "I  kept  the 
pansies  through  every  thing,  although  I  pre 
tended  to  myself  that  I  had  forgotten  them." 

Marston  returned  her  smile,  but  absently, 
and  stood  looking  at  her  with  all  the  love  of 
his  great  truthful  heart,  so  long  and  painfully 
repressed,  shining  in  his  eyes. 

"  I  wonder  if  it  is  the  summer  sunshine  or 
if  it  is  you  that  lights  up  this  old  garden  so  1" 
said  he  at  length.  "  Even  the  creeping  shad 
ow  of  old  Moloch  seems  full  ot  brightness 
and  joy." 

"  We  have  lived  in  his  shadow  six  long 
years,  and  it  is  time  that  it  should  turn  to 
sunshine,"  whispered  Beatrice  tenderly;  and  so 
they  passed  on  through  the  garden  and  into 
the  dim  and  echoing  old  house,  so  full  of 
memories,  and  now  so  full  of  hope. 


CHAPTER  LVI. 
THE  END. 

MARSTON  BRENT  and  his  wife  went  abroad, 
and  spent  a  happy  year  among  scenes  which 
Beatrice  had  visited  indeed,  but  had  never 
really  seen  until  now,  for  inward  happiness 
possesses  a  wonderful  power  of  opening  the 
eyes  to  all  forms  of  outward  beauty.  She  was 


143 


THE  SHADOW  OF  MOLOCH  MOUNTAIN. 


pleased,  too,  to  discover  that,  although  Brent's 
life  had  been  more  one  of  action  thau  of  study, 
he  had  turned  the  enforced  seclusion  of  his 
forest  and  mountain  homes  to  good  account, 
and  was  even  better  acquainted  theoretically 
than  she  was  practically  with  that  Old  World 
whose  wondrous  stories  have  been  said  and 
sung  from  the  days  of  Herodotus  to  this,  when 
books  of  travel  seem  to  have  superseded  visit 
ing-cards  as  announcements  of  the  return  of 
our  friends  and  acquaintances  from  Outre- 
Mer. 

But  before  she  went  abroad — nay,  before  she 
married  Brent — Beatrice  fulfilled  in  its  widest 
spirit  her  promise  to  Mr.  Chappelleford.  The 
book  of  Saurians  was  published,  and  although 
no  name  but  that  of  the  philosopher  appeared 
upon  the  title-page,  it  was  whispered  among 
the  savans  that  at  least  half  the  credit  of  the 
minute  research,  elaborate  collocation,  and 
elegant  and  classic  diction  characterizing  the 
work  was  due  to  the  unnamed  editor. 

The  papers  relating  to  the  philological  trea 
tise  were  also  placed  in  the  hands  of  the  liter 


ary  friend  whom  Mr.  Chappelleford  had  desig 
nated,  and  we  may  yet  expect  a  biography  of 
the  "  Mother  of  Languages,"  which  shall  con 
vert  us  all  into  her  devotees,  although  Mrs. 
Brent's  Sanscritian  studies  never  have  passed 
beyond  their  most  elemental  stages. 

Somewhere  abroad,  the  Brents  encountered 
Monckton,  who  offered  his  congratulations, 
and  lingered  some  weeks  in  their  society  with 
a  friendly  ease  incompatible  with  bitterness  if 
not  with  constancy.  If  he  could  not  forget, 
he  had  certainly  forgiven  the  keenest  of  all 
wounds  with  which  a  man's  self-love  can  be 
wounded. 

"  All  passeth  but  Goddis  Will."  Yes,  all 
passeth,  even  the  shadow ;  for  although  earth 
ly  journeyings  may  fail  to  bring  us  to  the  sun 
ny  places  where  other  lives  seem  blooming 
without  pain  or  care,  the  shining  hills  lie  full 
in  view  beyond  the  shadow  and  beyond  the 
flood,  and  no  feet  are  so  tender,  no  heart  so 
weary,  no  strength  so  broken,  that  they  may 
not  hope  to  win  safely  through,  and  scale 
those  glorious  heights  at  last. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-25m-7,'63(D8618s8)444 


DC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A    001  372768    o 


PS 

1052 

S52 


